Copycat

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

Science 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. 

Better Offer

Angry girl poem that I wrote. It was when I made the mistake of going out with someone who I thought was someone honest. Needless to say, men can only be so honest when their best days are behind them and they are washed up. I kick his ass a little in this selection. 

Who is she?

Does she have a name?

Was she number four?

Miss With Her I Always Score?

I know because I was most definitely number five

Actually, I don’t want to know her name

Or what she is about.

But her body is damn sexy,

When she hits your thread count?

But don’t confuse sexy with easy.

You men always confuse sexy with easy.

Lost and having a bad day with sad-

With I need you?

Then you ask, “Can I feed you?”

But the dinner isn’t free?

So you waited some time to crawl back to me.

Two weeks to be exact.

You claim you had been thinking of me all week,

When it was timing you lacked,

As well as a memory.

I know you are used to some damn stupid women-

Who think they are the only one.

Were her legs long and did they wrap around you like a snake?

Was she a hard bodied gym girl or were the ta tas fake?

Was the hair on her head real or out of a bottle?

I know she was the one who had the birthday party.

Yes the one covered in all those tacky tattoos-

You told her she looked amazing in that dress-

Unoriginal I must confess-

You ran that line on me mister.

What was it about her that drove you away?

Not as easy as you had planned?

Did her legs not pry open, instantly spread?

Did she scoff when she easily walked away from your bed?

Or did she give you something that makes you burn when you pee?

What was it about me that drove you away?

I know it wasn’t that I was too needy, I barely called?

Was it that I didn’t call at all?

Maybe I didn’t fall

Madly like the other girls chasing to the ground

Maybe it was that I talked too much?

Or maybe it was because I didn’t fawn

Over your masculine aura and cologne?

My life was so busy I needed to be alone.

Sorry to be an independent woman.

Was it that I wore the wrong clothes?

I wore the wrong shoes that weren’t your style?

That I talked too rough?

I wasn’t pretty enough?

How was she the one who lost my number for?

Whore! Yes that’s what she is.

Easy does it, well she’s easy.

Maybe she was more fun.

She’s also the crossword puzzle everyone has done.

Broken and stupid and contrite.

Wait, why am I slut shaming?

You think you are a Romeo-

Believing women fall to your knees-

Gag me, oh please!

You are not that much to write home about.

The insults should not be hurled at her-

I have never met this woman who stole you unknowingly.

But you weren’t stolen you went you dog.

Not just for a jog-

You lied to the both of us.

I abandon my distain for someone whom I don’t know-

But fire my verbal bullets at you, lying man.

Calling me crazy-

Oopsie daisy.

Escape line of a boy caught with an axe and a cherry tree.

When I am done hating her

I tell you off.

Then you are gone,

The question lingers on,

Why did you stray?

Why did you go away?

Why did you believe you could return?

Like the rain does every spring-

Making my telephone ring.

Tell me Suave Dick, how was she the better offer?

May: April, I think the fact that you are crazy scared him away.
April: But May, guys say crazy girls are better where it counts
May: It didn't help that I was sitting on your shelf with that knife.  Couldn't help I had a callback the next day. 

Wearing my Lucite shoes minus the pole and the man still doesn't want me. I will bring my pasties next time......

Maybe I was too smart for him. Men don't like smart girls.  It makes them realize how dumb they truly are. 

You did not just call me after two weeks of not hearing from you say, "I have been thinking about you all week. " I knew you were a retard. This just confirmed my suspicion. 

Save your stupid lines for your mother, Pal. She is the only one with a  vagina that actually believes your bs. 

Return of Lady Lazarus

Dedicated to Sylvia Plath, a brilliant poetess killed by sexism and the fact that she was born into a time that didn't recognize women's issues and put a stigma on those who had depression

They say you died three times like a cat

Well they still couldn’t kill you off, fancy that

Fancy the analogies

Oh darling, oh please

As you strut with your red hair

Your woman hood

There are bones in the ground

A headstone cold as the winter earth you were buried in

They say the engine took you

The gas

Like those in the camps

His name was Ted

You met in England

You were tall, your hair was red

He imprisoned you with his lies

He killed you they say

Your words

Eternal

Singing about womanhood

Sometimes bad, sometimes good

Motherhood, the cross we bear

Do you dare question?

They label you with ugly words

They call you lost

Many men, oh yes the men

Laugh and say it is all your fault

Your plight and the fact you took flight

From a world much too small for you anyway

Your bedrock memorial

Cold as the North Atlantic

Hughes scraped off

By those labeled radical feminists

Or those of us who know the truth

Ted’s second victim knew the truth

So much so that she copied you

Like a carbon paper doll

She sucked it in and took it all

Esther is an alias

So Biblical

So appropriate for the daughter of a beekeeper

You didn’t die but you were killed

You didn’t die but you rise in the voice of every angry woman

Anybody labeled as crazy

In the library they whisper your name

At Smith they have a sick game

Every Halloween where you are the favorite costume

You got it on number three

It was the trash

You tore up the decade and rose from the ash

The movie only captured your pale shadow

Ted still makes it about him

Pinching the profits although they might be slim

With you rotting in the ground it was so easy to do

But he would always live in the haunting shadow of you

Cancer got him and took him to hell

He didn’t rise out of the ash like you my love

Oh I can tell

They say you were lost

That’s why you did what you did

I think you knew the destination

I think you finally found your trap door

The cure to the malaise.

Out of a world that didn’t welcome your spirit

But yet you always rise from your cold grave cave with your words.

The Fulbright and Lady Lazarus herself