E-M-O.
Emo.
blahhhhhh
I didn't like this. Because I just wrote a critique. That was just like the one I'm about to write. And I'm going to tell you. You're not the only user who just came on YWS and decided to smack one of these poems on the board only to be scrutinized by the older members of YWS. And then two months later they're poetic geniuses. So don't worry.
First off. And Lastly.
CLICHE.
CLICHE.
CLICHE.
PASSE.
This was a cliche poem. 
It's sad. But true. I suggest you rewrite the whole thing.
Let me rewrite my version, substituting all your cliches with my original stuff.
They hate me. I have the freedom to laugh. To dress. To just be.
They just hate me.
I know you've heard it all before, but the truth is... I am just another one of you.
I'm just another kid.
Just another typical child, normal. Troubled.
But they still hate me--and don't worry for me. I feel great!
They just hate me. But I can never be wrong--never!
And it's all because I'm just normal.
Just a normal kid. Normal kid from D.C.
I have the freedom to laugh. To love. Just to be.
Gack. This is terribly cliche too.
So I got a good idea for a rewrite. Scrap this entire poem. And come up with one anecdote. Just one. About you being free. About you being sad. About everyone hating you. And make it short. And interesting. Not about school, about you don't have any friends. Make it about something small. Like the one I'm going to write on the spot right now:
She saw me.
That blond mother with a little girl tugging on her shirt.
She saw me.
Me, pulling a shopping cart down aisle seven with a red mohawk slitting across my scalp.
She saw I.
I is standing in front of her, and little girl there begging for some candy.
She has a smug look on her face. A scared one. A noble one. Her lower lip is biting
into her upper one.
I can see the terror. She hates me. She hates anyone like me.
They all hate me.
I crack out a frozen pizza and turn around. I disappear into aisle number eight; she goes
the other direction, murmuring to her little daughter, throwing side glares at my hair.
I look down at my palms and they sweat. I want to kill her.
But I think of that frozen pizza.
I look at the cashier touch my hair eat my pizza look at her she looks at me.
When I come home, you watch.
I'm going to buzz that hair. I'm just going to buzz it till it bleed.
Did you like it? Did you like it?
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