Hello, Mr. Stalker.
I think we've met before.
Maybe over Internet
Or somewhere past my door.
Perhaps you think you love me—
Oh, what a twisted thought!
Or maybe now you hate me,
'Cause past your lies I saw.
Don't think that I can't see you.
I know you're hiding there.
You read these very words now,
Mr. Pedo Bear.
You stare at all my pictures,
You go through all my friends,
You read all of my stories,
But, really—to what end?
Frankly, you're a creeper.
That's all you'll ever be.
And frankly, I don't care now
You're just a fly to me.
YOU ARE READING
The Art of Confusion
PoetryDiana Miller is schizophrenic...or at least she thinks so. She has never been clinically diagnosed because her father believes that mental illness is demon possession, and she knows he would never take her to a psychiatrist. To cope with her inner c...
