A new haircut
a practiced smile
is this what makes me happy?
No.
Cliche' after cliche' to fit in,
fake hugs and gestures and conversations;
relationships that don't mean a damned thing all pile up
and threaten to thrust me overboard.
Individuality and highschool do not mix.
So I'll cut this hair and paint these nails
some sort of jumbled neon colors
I'll smile my goofy grin that threatens to morph this face
all the while rocking out to the playlists that play in my mind.
I'll dance to my own beat,
sing my own songs,
and write every experience of it down.
My poetry will speak for me;
show my style, and never follow any of those rules that say what poetry is.
No rhymes or schemes
no syllables or
even
correct stanzas or punctuation and evenspacesmaybecomeobsolete
My life is mine
my poetry is mine
and I can do whatever I'd like with it.