This is about a girl who makes things up in order to get people to read her shitty poety and listen to her shitty singing. She thinks it's turning heads but she has literally borrowed her life from TV movies and books. I know, because I know my TV movies and books. I have never met anyone more pathetic and phony in my life. So I wrote a poem about her, actually all the wannabes I ever met rather. Here it is.
A wannabe artist
Who owns a cat
One has a litterbox
Sincere it it’s feline exploits
The other insincere
Not real, pure fiction
An experiment gone wrong
A sad, long funeral song
To an identity she never had
And now wantonly steals
First a blonde
Now a red head
Whatever gets you in bed
With the phony man
Who gives you the phony lie you desire
Will you be the beautiful lady you desire?
The girl they all admire?
As you make up another tale for sale
With the angst you claim you have
With your made up backstory sans publicist?
What is this, the bipolar mother?
The lazy genius father?
Not true, why bother
To clear up the inconsistencies
In your story?
My family insanity you whine
As you down it with another glass of wine
Maybe you will drink yourself into obscurity
Because it takes talent to write poetry
Something you don’t have
You pray it will make you a popular writer
You hope it will make you a popular singer
As they say you are a dead ringer
For that girl and her style
Perhaps the next big thing.
Maybe it will make you popular behind the mic
Telling jokes, slamming words
Whatever you like
To boost your lack of self worth
But that too involves talent
Picked on in school, now were you?
Despite being tall and modelesque
That was your fate
You never struggled with your weight
This too is your borrowed tale.
What about your blemished skin?
Unless it was a blotchy disgrace
As you covered your face
But you are as smooth as a baby’s bottom
Actually, you are an ass.
Rough neighborhood oh you did that too?
I guess there were a thousand tales like it
Then there was you
Rich friend let you borrow her address
And then gave you money like Pip in Great Expectations.
A life put together like a trash novel
Ready to sell for a dime on the shelf
Borrowed stories from others
Because it is too hard to be yourself
In this mish mash called life.
A guy who chews you like gum because that’s all you are
Spits you out like dollar store food because that is who you are
Once Coney Island White Trash
Always the member of the lower class
Always on the bottom of my boot like soot
And we all know it including your man
Dirtier and more useless than old cleaning socks
Stomp you into the litter box
As you try to be like Robert Frost
Now go die a borrowed death as he rolls in his grave.