it takes all kinds: a poem

This is for all my b-words who don’t play nice,
for all my freaks who don’t care,
for all my boys who wear shorts in the snow,
and for all my girls whose shoes don’t match.

This is for my drama kings with mohawks and nose rings,
for all my deadpans in black and stripes,
my skateboarding, anime-tatted burn-outs,
my broke-down, beat-up, starry-eyed punks.

They’ll never understand you
but that’s okay.
They don’t have to.
They don’t have to.

All of us have one job in this life.
To sing out our guts
whether anyone’s looking or not.

There will always be someone shaking their head,
but The Herd is dead.

Long live the individual.


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