Every time I read The Great Gatsby
The flaws appear like claws.
The false hope (the buried seeds)
The reality (the burnt lights)
The illusion (the masked truth)
Living in the moment (dying for it)
The deceit (the diversity of love).
Hence, the walls rise
To reflect upon the mortar
And perhaps I could be the woman you need
But do you even need me?
You are thriving on your own
Much better than I fare
I’d rather wear my jeans
Than put on the fake fancy air. I will not write for you.
She is far from who I could ever be
and he is not you.
None of it is real
plays with my head
as I stare at the moon
during the day before I open my bed.
I mean nothing of what I say
do not care about the splash
I suppose Daisy and I would share a drink and some hash
and Tom would sweep me off my feet again (like he always does)
and the poems would lay
at the bottom of the pool
as the blinding light
seizes to blink
and how it can all sink.