16 October 2017

The Fanatic // Poem

You clearly don’t remember, but
I recall lying on the carpet of my old room
Looking at the pictures of you like plastered paper
And I saw myself smiling back from your eyes.

I would open magazines and search every page
For your red lips and winged eyes
Then scream in excitement when I found you
Almost as if I had found myself between
 the pages of Shout Magazine.

I gave up my Christmases for you. I didn’t
Listen to ‘Jingle Bells’ but to you on repeat
On repeat, and heard you promise me
You’d always be there in my ears.

I bought my first guitar at twelve, just like you
It was beautiful – bigger than me and midnight blue
The first song I played was painful and poor
But to me it was amazing because it sounded like yours

Nothing was more painful than your betrayal.
When you saw your sales stoop slightly
I could hear your fear in the electronics
Which replaced the familiar Pennsylvanian phonics
I once loved so much.
You will never understand how it hurts
Because you’re no longer writing for me
I can no longer hear my story in your lyrics
You’re writing for the cool kids, like a 12-year-old girl
Trying to fit in like thatch in tiling.
It doesn’t make sense to me any more when I hear
The words you really want to say in the voice break
On stage, make it through, just one more page…
Bathing in the screams of those who don’t even know who you are.
Not like I do.
I was there when you were fragile, when you wrote for me
When you wrote for her and you wrote for you,
Not when you wrote because your label wants you to.
Not when you only send out flowers when you have a new release
On the way to number 1.
Were you using me like you’re using that girl you gave
Thousands of dollars to for her tuition just for the
Publicity, not for her like you’re selfless, because you’re selfish.
Does he know he’s just a ken doll in your rise to something?
Does he know you’re a spider, leeching every penny out
Of his existence, just like you did to me?
Do you even realise that I’m here? I’m one of millions
To you, there was a time when you would go into broad daylight
Just to meet me, you thought there was nothing brighter
Than the ones who dedicated their Christmases to you
Who cried over you. Now you expect it, you treat us like
We are the charms on your bracelets, or the necklace
I once wanted because you wore it that time.
I don’t even know your message anymore!
It used to be 13 ways you can love yourself
That any dreams are achievable. But you never
Told me that your daddy paid to get you where you are.
You are proof that hard work and talent means nothing.
I wonder why I wasted words on why you are more than tales
Of woe because you weren’t worth any of it. You weren’t worth me.
You called yourself a feminist icon. You said you were there
For the girls that needed you, not just the ones who want to look like you
You swore to me that I was worth more than the guy I was dating-
Maybe that’s how you became who you are now, by believing yourself
To be above everyone else. Above me. Above him. Above her.
My mother calls me cynical. But I call it common sense
She knows I’ve watched your patterns for years, I know
That when a new guy is on the scene you’re working on
something immense.
I know that when you send goody bags to fans your plan
Is to get them to buy, and their friends to buy, their girlfriend
And boyfriend and his friends to buy. When did you become
This emotionless machine, just doing it for the money?
To get another million dollars into your account of
One billion views on YouTube, which is just me cursing
Your name over and over again when you didn’t play
The songs I loved at your concert in London. Just the
Ones which reached number one but they don’t mean much
At all the ones who really love your music. They’re just echoes
Of the misery of those who don’t.
What hurt more than any of this
Was trying to catch your eye,
It meaning everything to me, then
Realising
That to you
I meant nothing at all.



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