Plaid is Not Played, No Matter How You Pronounce It.

A Poem by Amber

Because I was horribly confused.

I hope your promise becomes a prominence becomes a state of mind.
I hope I'm sorry, after all.
I think sometimes we leave behind
the left hand side of our right brains,
somewhere along the line between
spell check and Czechoslovakia...
(Didn't they become
republican?) Parentasis imply that
you're less important, but we're
covered in red lines and green squiggles,
implying that we've done something wrong.
How the hell could 'like' and 'love' be the
same word, in French? God, I hope I
never become dyslexic.
And my family is sitting around the
dinner table, eating moo-shoo pork and
egg rolls, and I'm so, so disappointed
that I don't like fortune cookies. I don't
have a fortune for a future and i can't
figure out if that bird's nest is supposed to be
there. Funny thing, not knowing synthetic
from psychedelic and i'm supposed to be a
psychologist. Come on, come one, if you
come at all to the party, party people. I'm so
sick of conjugating, and someone's laughing like a psychopath
on the television, and I haven't laughed since
about an hour ago, and I still, to this day, don't
remember why I was. They give warnings for
addictive games and none for sitting in the
Walgreen's parking lot, singing American Pie and
trying to stay sane in the Summer wind.
Obviously, you can't make mistakes, but ov-biously,
I can. Fake voices, fake eyelashes, what a way
to solve a murder. I remember your voice,
screaming "'I' before 'E'
except after 'C' and in words such a grief and."
(Oh, the suspense is killing me.)