I met a girl with fire on her head and in her heart,
Her arms were lined perfectly with the reaper's scythe.
She was beautiful, but she didn't know it.
And isn't that the story,
A sad, beautiful little thing saved by a shining knight,
Because no one cares unless you're beautiful or dying.
I am neither.
So where do I belong?
A young woman, never graced by lips in pure adoration,
The last time I was kissed was
Only because he wanted me to **** his **** and
Even then I was only a rebound because
I am never first.
First? No-
I'm that weird girl at a frat party with
A beer in her hand and nobody to dance with,
No one to make out with unless the guy who asked
Was already rejected by everybody else.
I'm that awkward friend who always
Stands off a little to the side because
I never know what to say.
When I was a little girl, I wrote a poem.
I called it second best, because
I knew my parents' pride wasn't me.
How could it be, standing in the shadow of a
Prom king, football playing, religious, outgoing,
Straight-A, straight-laced son?
I mean, sure, they loved me but
What is love, really?
Can't anyone tell me? Because I'm sitting inside this
Bricked up wall, Invisible to the passerby,
They pass on by, pass me by, can't they see me cry?
No, this wall is too **** high-
Just like the last guy.
And so, I was dead before I was born.
What a cold heart, I'm never warm.
I found the world, but it was broken.
I found love, but it was wasted
Like the last man I tasted.
So, tonight I'm writing a poem
And I'm calling it second best because that?
Is what I am.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
I met a girl with fire on her head and in her heart,
Her arms were lined perfectly with the reaper's scythe.
She was beautiful, but she didn't know it.
And isn't that the story,
A sad, beautiful little thing saved by a shining knight,
Because no one cares unless you're beautiful or dying.
I am neither.
So where do I belong?
A young woman, never graced by lips in pure adoration,
The last time I was kissed was
Only because he wanted me to **** his **** and
Even then I was only a rebound because
I am never first.
First? No-
I'm that weird girl at a frat party with
A beer in her hand and nobody to dance with,
No one to make out with unless the guy who asked
Was already rejected by everybody else.
I'm that awkward friend who always
Stands off a little to the side because
I never know what to say.
When I was a little girl, I wrote a poem.
I called it second best, because
I knew my parents' pride wasn't me.
How could it be, standing in the shadow of a
Prom king, football playing, religious, outgoing,
Straight-A, straight-laced son?
I mean, sure, they loved me but
What is love, really?
Can't anyone tell me? Because I'm sitting inside this
Bricked up wall, Invisible to the passerby,
They pass on by, pass me by, can't they see me cry?
No, this wall is too **** high-
Just like the last guy.
And so, I was dead before I was born.
What a cold heart, I'm never warm.
I found the world, but it was broken.
I found love, but it was wasted
Like the last man I tasted.
So, tonight I'm writing a poem
And I'm calling it second best because that?
Is what I am.
Listen to it read here: https://soundcloud.com/miranda-santoro/second-best
Watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q4laN5JAhWo
Request permission to use this poem