The only good thing
about this poem is the name.
I need attention.

For some odd reason
I feel entitled to a
life superior.

Ha, that's such a laugh.
A perfect little pretty
boy gets what he wants.

The other joke is
how he crys when it isn't
completely around.

Maybe he deserves
to be avoided like the
plague. But he isn't.

The perfect little
pretty boy even writes in
an organized form.

Maybe the perfect
little
pretty boy
needs to let loose,
become unblind.
And stop being such a
s***.

He needs to
stop faking it
and be
creative,
unrelated
to the pressures of
society
and set flames to new
rioting,
and rebel 'gainst the system,
reject playing the victim,
be free and uncaring
in a world he is sharing-
instead of stealing; and tearing
at the seams of reality
and jaunting in place,
instead he must face
a cruel mentality
that he isn't perfection,
and his pretty reflection
has no meaning
and he's only careening
away from
the truth.

But he knows that won't
happen. Because attention
is an addiction.

Form is his friend.
And his thoughts are his downfall.
But that's the new trend.