Whatever
By Hannah R., Longmeadow, This,
compilation of carefully constructed compliments
spills from your lips,
in spews of watered-down,
whatever.
Their,
diluted letters make for:
dumbed-down words, and those words make for
humdrum sentences of useless,
y’know.
But, I’m not so sure I do.
Fictitious fables blend with story upon story,
of senseless Saturday nights spent drinking,
Circulate, in steamy whirlpools of,
pointless popularity contests,
the judges armed with popped collars and seas of polos.
Members of this high-class society of,
materialistic convention,
power acquired by the number of zeros before a decimal point,
placed in front of commas
and after shiny green dollar signs.
You spit that useless information in my face,
in salty sea sprays,
of things that don’t really matter.
And my eyes,
sting.
Flashes of alligator emblems and,
half-filled cups of Starbucks coffee.
I’m drowning in your rants of all things superficial and
surreal.
You’re oblivious to the real truth, because
that fancy car will soon deteriorate,
along with your meticulously manmade and
shallow legacy you’ve tried so hard to create.
Blurs of lockers and mini-skirts swim past
these chlorinated eyes,
and I just can’t seem to rid them of this,
stinging sensation I feel
every time I look you in your eye.
But,
I know you’re not listening,
and, this won’t really matter.
So, I’ll sigh,
and just float on in your tidal wave of,
y’know.
Whatever.
Girl Fashion
