"L.A. Cliche?" is brought to you by Poorly Written

Misguided. Disgruntled.. Abandoned…

 

I stood in front of the Ronald Reagan Building on South Spring St. ,
observing the citizens of Los Angeles going about their lives. It's 2:49pm so
people are taking a quick, yet late lunch break at the nearest café.
Waiting for my brother to pick me up was worse than taking the actual exam that brought me to the now dreadful Downtown LA. Don't give me wrong, I love him - I don't I blame him for having me wait over an hour to get picked up. Though I would have imagined it'd feel a little bit like getting rescued from a tragic & traumatic accident. No - no, I don't resent him.

 

However I do resent the "precious" time. I resent the wonderful soon-to-be-Spring LA weather that patronizes me, kicking me in the stomach as I lay in the grounds of my failures. I resent the breeze that brushes against my hair, slandering the comforting scent of my shampoo. I resent the pedestrians smiling at their friends and or S/O's, mocking me as I casually quivered against my small corner. I resent the potentially delicious cup of coffee I purchased that could only taste mediocre on my unsatisfied tongue. I resent the minutes, the seconds, I spent investing - not only my money, but - my hopes and prayers to pass a test that could very well symbolize my whole life.

 

I get it universe, I suck. I already know how pathetic I am. You don't have to remind me how much of a disappointment I am. You don't have to regurgitate my short-comings and failures to me - my sadistic, selective "short-term" memory excels in this.  You don't have to taunt my nerves and mentality, because I'm already quite the pro at doing so myself. You don't have to pretend to paint my roses red, when we all know that they're as white as a paper with no expectations of being marked. So please stop tugging at my hair; please stop trying to console me, when all you know how to do is scourge me.

 

As I looked up at the marvelous architecture of Los Angeles, I adored the beautiful history they portrayed. I praised the deep, culture-rich environment that was so well chosen to exhibit their beauty. Oh, how these landmarks could tell you the stories of every lost soul, every person who's shattered dreams were spilled on their aesthetically-paved concrete sidewalks. I could only wonder if they ever had the pleasure of witnessing a love bloom, or a career being built on a solid foundation… or even a girl who's seen her life flash before her eyes knowing that there's a future worth discovering. Has this arena of grand edifices witnessed such a miracle?

 

I wait - misguided, disgruntled, and abandoned -  in the City of Angels … where was mine?

This poem is about: 
Me

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