Wild, uncombed and greasy hair
Covered her shaggy, pierced eyebrows
As she put on a black pair of glasses
Showing off the tattoos swirling round her jaw
She walked out the house in her bright pink converse
And her bright orange-like-the-sun tee
Her flowery legs complemented her face
Which was lit up by a pastel shimmer of makeup
The world snuck many glances at the stranger
As she walked with a sway in her hips
An indifferent aura radiated off her unique soul
And she was young, wild and free
She didn’t fit in the crowd
Not with any of the cliques known to man
She was neither a “Punk” nor a “Jockette”
She was different and boy, did she know it!
Whispers were traded as she walked on
Make no mistake, now, they weren’t awed compliments
Ew, who does she think she is?
That style of hair died, like, a century ago!
The sharp tendrils of insults wrapped around her neck
Trying to choke the difference out of her
An illness, they called it
A disease, they called her.
Hypocrites lined the path she took
Different is good but difference is an illness
Be unique but always remember to fit in
Confused by the contradictory remarks,
She shrugged her shoulders and walked on.