"So A Death-Poet Joins A Conversation"

About how some people always need the media and their 'friends' to tell them what they should buy, own, e.t.c

Canned laughter, like a cheap sit-com,

We all pretend to be at ease in the conversation,

Laugh falsely through the awkward bits,

Pretend it's a huge joke when I say,

That I write death poetry all the time,

Then they notice that I'm not smiling,

And theirs become fixed on their scarlet lips,

"So you're serious?" They ask and pretend,

That they don't think I'm a freak,

They slip away, thinking that they're oh-so-discreet,

But you can see the sideways looks,

Any scars? Is that depression in her eyes?

No, it's just someone being herself,

I suppose the concept is alien to you,

Always seeking the approval of your peers,

Always looking to the media for guidance,

I Am Myself,

I Will Stay That Way,

Don't Try And Change Me,

You're Only Wasting Time.

The End

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