She struts through the streets in her silver studded designer jeans
A nose pointed to the sky and eyelashes that don’t bat
From her emaciated wrist dangles a shiny leather Prada bag
That effortlessly glares down upon the rest
A cloud containing the smell of acetone surrounds her
As her perfectly French manicured nails gently grasps her Frappuccino
Her porcelain skin radiates beauty
And her lifeless smile possesses the eighth world wonder
Glistening blonde locks hold curls
That bounce like a slinky with every step she takes
Meaningless words emerge from her glossed lips like word vomit
Her sky-high heels put her on a pedestal trumping ours
Must we trade our souls for material
With no passion, no direction, she’s merely existing
Must we follow this path she’s laid