loud
obnoxious teenagers
making
my ears bleed
my
eyes hurt to look
at
them
seeing
ten clones.
facial
piercing
not
an expression
of
self
instead,
a billboard
screaming
‘I’m different!’
kurt
cobain died
two
years ago
so
wipe your pseudo tears
and
jump on the next
bandwagon,
as it trails by.
sporting
hair as strange
as
possible and dog collars
wonder
why they stare
I
am drunk off of
their
senseless babble.
taking
center stage
the
freak show circus
of
this place that once
was
so quiet
and
allowed my mind to wander.
eight
girls two boys
shock
value teens
afraid
to be themselves,
desire
to fit into
the
puzzle somewhere.
starving
for attention,
but
they only create it,
although
I am not one
to
judge
looking
as I do.
if
I could get past the
pseudo-intellectual
conversation,
I am
sure
I could find ten
real
people, but
they
hide so wide,
comparing
therapy
stories
and what
they
saw the last time
they
took acid.
wishing
I had some answers
for
them, but they cannot
hear
me, I am not weird
enough,
I sit and observe
and
still nothing concluded...
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