Why do you think that the girl in the back,
Two rows down, four seats to the right,
Cries herself to sleep every night?
Why is it that the boy in the front,
The one who all the teachers call punk,
Goes on rampages often and likes to get drunk?
Why does the boy who sits in the corner,
With perfectly gelled hair and bright yellow jacket,
Weep when the boys at school call him a faggot?
Why does the girl with her bangs in her eyes,
The one who wears long sleeves to hide all the scars,
Cut herself daily with broken glass shards?
And why did the girl who sat right next to me,
In the now empty desk chair that no one will choose,
Commit suicide only just last week? Ending her life by means of a noose.
We all want attention. After all, don't we suffer?
Through the torture and torment and pain to be witnessed.
It is my hope that in writing this poem, our last cries of help will not go unnoticed.
YOU ARE READING
Sometimes She Likes . . .
PoetryThis is a series of poems that I wrote, mostly about emotional struggles and sad things like that. Hopefully I'll be adding to it soon, but that all depends on the feedback. If you like it please leave a comment or whatever you feel like. Thanks a b...
