It’s time.
To move on.
To move out.
To march and stamp and stomp and scream.
To tear this world apart.
It’s time to show them who you are.
Not who they want to see.
It’s time to buckle your armour
Lace, tweed, leather, skirts, jeans, studs, khaki.
Because the world will never accept you.
They don’t want your sick imitations.
No matter what you do.
So you can bawl until your eyes are sore,
I won’t feel sorry for you.
I feel sorry for the world, because
they’ve made an enemy of a red-eyed
demon.
YOU ARE READING
the angst album
Non-FictionA collection of the little things I write, some poems, some those scrolling paragraphs I can't ever seem to escape. Here is my heart, and since you are a stranger you cannot hurt me with it. Vote if you like, don't vote if you don't, hell you could...
