Shouting Poem by Madison Massarello

You are the cool girl.
With your melted gaze that fixes on the underlying need for assurance.
With your enticing palms that caress the handle and press into the tantalizing button that pours our rookie comments and lonesome thoughts into a red solo cup.
For you are not me.
I become delusional over the brilliance of Allen Ginsberg, Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf as their words drip like sweet honey on golden paper.
I dream of the hysterical trees that loom over my scraped elbow and the simplicity of natural light as it seeps into my room, leaving a lush haze of my scattered thoughts.
You are the cool girl.
Drowning in a pool of enchanted ignorance.
Slipping amongst the sensuous other.
For I wish my words would waltz across my tongue, diving into the walls that encase your holy skull.
Can you hear me?