December 8, 2011
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I walk out in the hall,
my bad and meaningless poem in hand,
its something about the beach,
my teacher thinks otherwise,
he thinks it’s a metaphor for consumerism of today’s economy,
I don’t care as long as I get an A.
I sit down in my quiet space,
in the hall,
against a locker,
like I was instructed.
I look down at my poem.
ten feet away, someone sniffles audibly.
sitting in the hall,
like me,
looking at a poem,
her poem. Like everyone else,
but she’s not everyone else.
she squints at her paper,
refusing to wear unfashionable lenses.
she sits awkwardly crossing her legs in her pencil skirt,
and tight tangerine tank top.
everyone is silent,
stealing quick hateful and envious glances,
at the girl they want to be.
she looks down at her page,
unable to take the looks,
she staggers to her feet,
tearing down the hall.
unable to take the looks,
a tear silently sliding down her cheek,
as she walks out,
the girl everyone wants to be or be with.
I scramble silently and stealthily to her fallen page,
the title was “The Real Me,” paper wet with tears.

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