Oh, look, more poetry.

[apocalypsos]

I have to turn in at least two drafts of poems next week -- one for my teacher and one to get workshopped. I think I'm handing in this one to be workshopped.

*

Invisible


Invisible in the driver's seat
So I can bop along with Gaga like I'm in the club
Wiggle my hips like it's a drunken wedding reception.
I can belt out Adele, Florence + the Machine, Queen
a little bit of everything
I can sing like I can sing
I've got a sterling record contract and everything.
No one can see me
So I don't have to feel even a ounce of shame
When as an itty bitty white girl from an itty bitty white town
I drawl, “Aw, yeah, that's my jam,” over something like
Will Smith – or worse, Vanilla Ice.
There's a force field around the driver's seat
That hides the fact I'm wearing the paper crown
From my Big Kid's Meal all the way home.
(It's a present from Burger King, see –
Restrain those empty calories and get a paper hat
and a small stuffed penguin that squeaks when you squeeze it.)
I'm in another dimension when I'm driving
Where no one can see me yelling at the DJ
For implying that Santorum isn't that much of a bigot,
Or saying without shame that she loves Twilight
It's a textbook for stalking, for Pete's sake.
Hidden away behind clear windows in a public place
No one can see me pretend to give interviews
to People and Entertainment Weekly
About my glorious writing career
And how glad I am about the casting in the
film adaptation of my first book.
(I take lunch with one of the guys from Supernatural now –
isn't that the best?)
In the driver's seat I disappear,
Hopefully every single time
I prefer not to break down and sob in public some days.