Dark Child

I'm a teenager and I hate my life. I am stuck in this fucked up house with the anger and the suffocation. I have ripped out a place for myself in this little town of oppression, doing all that I can to scream my frustration without saying a word. Why are people so stupid, so selfish? Can't they see me? They don't understand.
I try to flee from the madness in my house and end up neck deep in something that could scar me even more. My schoolmates just don't get it, with their perfect little households, ideal parents, good grades and extra curricular wonders. I hate the smiles, the fakeness of it all, am I the only kid in this town that is real?
If you look, you can find me; I have locked myself in my room with my headphones on so I can't hear the screaming. I took the screen out from my window and I sit on the sill, half in and half out of my window, blowing cigarette smoke at the stars, wishing I could just jump down and run away.
God I resent the wholesome boys and girls at school, I'm sure they go home and do their homework like good little soldiers, Mommy and Daddy standing behind them with a proud hand on their shoulder. All I get is grief; I get a foil packet of chicken leftovers flung at me down the hall by the wicked witch in the kitchen who's had too much poison tonight. And they wonder why I never want to be home, and they wonder why I skip classes to hang with the naughty boys, validating my reputation as loser and trouble maker. At least I am somebody, I am something, and I have an identity after all.
My friends are like me, ruined homes, and troubled souls, destined to make our mark in the world with a fist or a can of spray paint.