Why is it that everyone tells me how to feel?
Or tells me that my feelings; they aren’t real?
Why is it that everyone thinks that they know me like a pro,
But can’t even tell me the name of my beau?
You weren’t there when I made my mommy proud.
Or even that time when daddy screamed my name from the crowd .
So why are you here telling me what to do with my life?
And creating hours of unnecessary strife?
The people who are dear to me don’t seem to mind,
Like a trisle around a tree on me they are twined.
So don’t tell me how to feel ,dress or walk
You weren’t invited in my life, you didn’t even knock.
So please stop worrying about me and start worrying about yourself.
Judging by the things you said to me, you need serious help
I’ll live my life the way I want, and be someone rare
And you can go get a life of yours, if you have time to spare.
YOU ARE READING
Drunk Poets on Literary Weed
Poetry\\Midnight writing and midday dreaming by the writers on here\\ //Poems can be slightly triggering and there will be a warning so please do not read if you would prefer not to// •Criticism is accepted but do not hate or make fun of any work for effo...
