Keystrokes ring out like gunshots
on her old second-hand typewriter.
She's writing something between
her auto-biography and her manifesto.
It's a first draft,
but it always will be.
Her life is a 30-something-year runtime
with no director,
and more plot holes
than Sharknado 3.
Her story is told
as a stream of barely-conciousness,
a train of thought
with no brakes
and no tracks
just a heading
and a pair of crossed
But the pages she's written
have already been released
and the critics tore her to shreds
and the reviews will not be ceased
'cause every story has a perspective
and hers has been hijacked
so now her narrative is dismissed
and she keeps being attacked.
They've got torches and they've got pitchforks
and they're kicking down her door
and there's a growing pool of blood beneath
her on the cutting room floor
But so what
Everyone's a critic
and a voice doesn't make you right
so you can boycott all her screenings
and she won't lose any sleep tonight
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