You don’t like my hair.
You don’t like my face.
You don’t like how I talk.
You don’t like my taste.

You don’t like how I think.
But I still ask why.
You be on my back.
That why I get so high.

You don’t like how I’m quiet.
You don’t like how I dress.
I may seem like a menace,
but I clean up my mess.

You don’t like my page.
You don’t like my songs.
You don’t like my poetry.
You only string me along.

You can’t feel my heart.
You can’t clear my head.
After a couple more writings,
I’ll be long gone, dead.

You don’t like when I’m outside.
But you don’t like me blue.
You ignore all my pain.
This story ain’t nothing new.

Trying to no longer let you make me sad.
Tired of back stabbing friends, and people making mad.

They say time heals all, but I guess that’s one thing we never had.

But I have..
Worser things to stress.

I was trying to be so blind.
Learning how to be kind.
But contemplating up in my mind.
Why did I hang around some fakes.

It took Mac dying to get a phone call.
And to be honest, you was better saying nothing at all.

But I'll keep it all inside.
I will laugh on my own.
While you and your little clique stays scavengers at my throne.

Wrapping up another writing then I think of something strange.
It’s funny how, everyone you bought around said they was the same. Little did I know, you all would change.