A Place Called Insane (And Other Whimsical Poems)

The Prettiest Lie in the Room

Hello, can I talk to you for a moment?

Ah, yes.

I think it’s quite obvious,

That you despise the guy you’re waltzing with.

I can’t help but notice,

As your graceful feet glide over the ballroom floor,

Your smile is forced,

Strained looks flitting through your eyes as your partner steps on your foot for another time.

Oh, don’t edge away from me, dearie,

For I am known for going quite getting upset,

When my latest pets need a leash.

Ha. You think I’m a perv?

Sorry to disappoint you, dear, but no.

I’m only a student in this academy.

Besides, I’ve met prettier lies than you.

But for the moment,

You’re the most beautiful truth-twister in the room.

Care for some punch?

I hear it’s quite excellent.

Hm?

Psycho?

I prefer, ‘mentally unstable’, sweetie.

Even the most unbalanced of us have feelings.

And I’ll never stop with the nicknames, as an afterthought.

I find it quite endearing.

What I mean by ‘prettiest lie in the room’,

Is that by far,

You’re the best actor among the sea of untrained thespians.

Don’t you think so?

You see the smile on my face?

I swear, if you roll your eyes again . . .

I’ll do something unthinkable.

And you say I’m the pervert.

What’s with that shudder?

Back to the topic,

I understand,

That your father willingly passed to that other world,

And you’re mothers a slut.

Oops, foul language.

I see you every day,

Covering up the scandals,

With honey and cyanide-filled sugar slipping softly through your tongue. 

You know what they say,

Two birds of the same wing flock together.

Funny how much that applies to you and your mother, doesn’t it?

Ah.

A slap.

I suppose I deserve it.

Don’t worry, honey,

Nobody’s listening.

They’re too busy looking at,

The new prom queen.

You expected it to be you, didn’t it?

Your fists clench your silver dress.

You’re not pure at all,

And I must say that in more vulgar terms,

Life’s a bitch.

Don’t you think she’s kind of pretty?

With her long cheerleader legs,

Blond curls,

And a life to die for,

It’s no wonder,

Why she’s the popular one.

I can’t believe,

I’m witnessing the great,

Crumple down on my knees!

Statistics have already proven that you’re:

Ice,

Unshatterable,

Not the one,

Supposed to be crying in the middle of this night.

Well, what do you want me to do?

Am I expected to hand you a hankerchief that’ll magically appear in my jeans?

Sorry, sweetie,

Ain’t happening.

Oh, so now you’re asking me for help?

To take her down, nevertheless.

Ha.

Statistics have changed,

So now you’re this:

The icy,

Unshatterable,

Not-the-one,

Supposed-to-be-crying-on-prom-night fool.

It’s crystal clear.

Since everyone else seems to be in their own worlds,

Making out with their partners and causing mayhem or sorts

I suppose that I can keep your little breakdown a secret.

But remember,

You owe me,

So don’t be surprise,

When I ask you for ten bucks in the middle of lunch,

Or ask your ‘boyfriend’ for a ride.

I think he’s just in the closet for the moment.

I know you’re thinking of killing that girl.

Here’s some simple advice:

Don’t.

You don’t want others to think,

That you’re a psychopathic loser.

Like me.

But I rather love that position too much to give it up.

What do I know about your situation?

Taking out the pity deck, ay?

Well,

Let’s just say,

I’ve ran into a couple of rocky roads—

And not the ice-cream kind.

If I were you,

I’d go back to your boyfriend,

And dance the night away.

If I were you,

I’d forget everything about that girl,

Look in the mirror,

And pretend that you’re her.

If I were you,

I’d just not give a damn,

Of what seven billion other people think about me,

And just go loco.

But of course,

You’ll end up with me,

Which isn’t that bad,

So, princess,

What do you say?

Dare dance with moi,

Or that dude flirting with the waiter?

                    I knew it.