I’m spending my birthday in jail because I wrote a poem in ninth grade.
I wrote it to get a fucking A because I was dumb enough to believe that good grades led to success and happiness.
I’m spending my birthday in jail because my grandma needlepointed that poem and framed it.
I’m spending my birthday in jail because I took the poem and the frame and whipped it through the window at the assisted living center and hit a nurse in the side of the head with it.
The sky was never the color I described in the poem and the A never meant anything, and even if I had meant what I said in that poem I wrote it before I knew the world was a dog pissing in my mouth after I fell off my bike and I’ll probably never be a grandma, but if I was, I’d tell kids not to write poems in ink, I’d tell them to write poems in smoke, because poems are just pretty lies.
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Wow
A very angry story. Care to share the inspiration for this one?