I would like to be a punk rock star.
I would drench my hair
In glue and gel
Creating spikes that went on for miles.
I would have more piercings
Then you could count,
In places you couldn�t see.
I would wear chains
And a collar with
Silver
Bullet
Studs,
Tight jeans
With
Pre-made rips
All down the front,
And
Too many belts
To count,
None of which
Would actually be holding up
My pants.
I would teach myself
To scream
Into the microphone
So you could barely make out the words
To the sad
Self-mutilating songs
I have been creating
Late at night
Alone
In my room.
When I died
No one
Would remember me.
Maybe that�s not the way
For me.
Maybe I should be
A beauty pageant princess,
Long
Blonde
Locks streaming
Past my ass
That I always wear tucked
In a little
Bow clip.
I would be thinner
Then all the
Anorexic girls
In the hospitals
With a fake chest
And painted smile.
I would stuff
The back of my pants
With tissues
To make it look like
I have something there.
I would walk
The walk
And
Wave
The wave
And pray
For world peace
As I secretly wish
That all the girls around me
Will fall and break there legs.
When I died
No one
Would remember me.
Maybe that�s not
The way for me.
Maybe
I should just be
A girl,
With dirty blonde
Hair,
Indescribable
Eyes
And a taste
For poetry.
I could dress
Anyway I wanted
And be whoever
I wanted to be
When I grew up.
I could actually taste
The innocents of childhood
And grow at all the right moments
In time.
I could study
What ever I wanted
And go
Where ever I wanted
To go.
I could do anything.
When I died
People would
Remember me.
Maybe that�s
The way for me.
Maybe I should
Just
Be
Me.
