First, we rapped. Now, let's cry.
I've been reading a few livejournals recently, (they all belong to strangers, mind you) and I've realized something. I hate emo people. I don't hate emo people because they listen to emo music. I don't hate emo people because they cry a lot. I don't hate emo people because they're just not fun to be around. Alright, actually, I hate them for all above reasons. But most of all, I hate them because they write poetry. There's nothing worse than reading a poem by some emo kid who thinks he can write. So, how about everybody takes a stab at writing an emo poem? Post a comment with your best emo poem, let's see how much you hate yourself.
"As I crane my neck toward the stars,
I hear the whine of an attention-starved pussy.
My foot, placed snugly up his ass.
Serving as a reminder that being emo is neither cool nor hip.
He cries his emo cry.
I laugh my maniacal cackle.
I punch his face and break his Dashboard CDs.
'My girlfriend dumped me four years ago,' he says.
'How could you be so cruel?'
To which I reply 'Shut the fuck up, emo boy.
Or I'll really give you something to cry about.'
Torture. Suffering. Disease. Eventual Death.
His life has escaped his control.
That's the way that he feels, anyway.
But I know that it's just an act because his mother wouldn't buy him Sparta tickets.
Foolish emo boy.
Pseudo-sadness does not make you a good writer.
Self-induced suffering does not make you a good writer.
Idiocy does not make you a good writer.
Emo boy screams at sky, but nobody listens.
Especially me, because I'm busy having a threesome with his mother and his ex-girlfriend.
While he watches.
While he cries.
While he masturbates.
Emo boy, what has become of you?
When are you going to grow up?
"As I crane my neck toward the stars,
I hear the whine of an attention-starved pussy.
My foot, placed snugly up his ass.
Serving as a reminder that being emo is neither cool nor hip.
He cries his emo cry.
I laugh my maniacal cackle.
I punch his face and break his Dashboard CDs.
'My girlfriend dumped me four years ago,' he says.
'How could you be so cruel?'
To which I reply 'Shut the fuck up, emo boy.
Or I'll really give you something to cry about.'
Torture. Suffering. Disease. Eventual Death.
His life has escaped his control.
That's the way that he feels, anyway.
But I know that it's just an act because his mother wouldn't buy him Sparta tickets.
Foolish emo boy.
Pseudo-sadness does not make you a good writer.
Self-induced suffering does not make you a good writer.
Idiocy does not make you a good writer.
Emo boy screams at sky, but nobody listens.
Especially me, because I'm busy having a threesome with his mother and his ex-girlfriend.
While he watches.
While he cries.
While he masturbates.
Emo boy, what has become of you?
When are you going to grow up?