I am pursued
by those who think of me
as one with no brain:
another vapid teen.

There's some truth to this lie,
this I must admit,
but some of what they think
is a load of s***.

I'm dramatic it's true,
that I can't deny,
but I don't just pretend
that the world cares for my life.

I don't broadcast my voice
across the voiceless plains
for fear of hearing echoes
echo back again.

And never do I think
in sickly sweet cliches.
Though people speak in these,
as I've seen all my days.

"What are the riches in your life?"
is something that they say.
I grimace as I answer:
it is just so lame!

I've sixteen years, I'm sarcastic,
a cynic through and through.
Answering this question is
one thing I'll never do.

Come on! I speak no riddles!
I beg, please understand!
There is just no reason
to play your evil hand!

I know the things you teach,
I write well, this you see.
And yet you look for ways
to think yourself better than me.

Perhaps you are, I'll say.
That could just be true.
But there's one way I'll say
I'm just better than you.

I know myself for sure.
I know just who I am.
I'm true and do not act,
my gratitude's not planned.

So maybe you are better,
but I do not pretend
that selfish words have never sprung
from my black ballpoint pen.

Now this poem's done,
I've written of the prompt,
but whether I'll turn this in or not?
That's one thing I doubt.