Hair up, head down.
Fake smiles, real frowns.
No one knows, no one cares.
The constant fighting, the obvious stares.
The long sleeve shirts, the jeans and sweatpants.
All concealed until Thursday's at dance.
Jeans fade to spandex and sleeves turn to sports bra's.
You're classmates not trying to hide the "gahs" and "awes".
But once the music turns on, and your body starts to flow,
For an hour a day, you push the sadness below.
YOU ARE READING
You Don't Care.
Poetry"There is nothing to writing, all you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed."
