Discontent

Discontent
With the way I write and curve my 'r's
With the way I react
when an boy I don't even know
walks into a restaurants and sits in the booth directly across
from mine

With the way I talk when I get really excited
And the way I squeal when love is ignited
during romantic comedies
that I don't even know why I watch

With the shape of my nose
With the shape of my eyes
and their lack of photogenic
ness

With the size of my foot
and the size of my hips
With my instagram account
With the reputation that precedes me
because of the gossip.

With my lack of emotion
And wealth of opinions
I don't even know where I got

With the length of my legs
And the length of my arms
And my indecision about a guy on which to have a crush.

But most of all, I am discontent with the fact that I have an abundance of things to write about how much I dislike myself
But nothing to say about things that matter

Like God and love and world peace and trust.

And no poems to write about tree's and flowers and perfect days spent of lakes on boats that rich people buy.