I'm Punk, Therefore, I Am.

4am, and there's no one out looking
but you nor your tatt cares about that
with a bow to perfect such messy hair
a white cardigan to cover the colours on your back
a pierced hollow ear, in today's trend
no one could understand the slap of your hand
not that the guys around are unkind
but its never the time when shit hits the fan

polka-dotted chucks and wrigley's gum
torn, black, short jeans so swift and lean
glossy and dark nail polish
suede black jacket beneath a row uncleaned
she awaits off a fluorescent corner
with red lipstick shaded of the light it emits
she smiled as she passed among the lines
and I kept face as I reminisced tasting the salt off those lips.

Warhol Girl.

girls wearing warhol never wish for mainstream
yet, yearn for the pop life
as its not a life of their own.
they stride for pure creation,
yet, they are divided by how socialible they are
between who see it as a trend and as a figure.
Warhol couldn't think of it either way,
as fifteen mintues is only enough for everyone;
too bad those faces fight for the strands of seconds

bright colour embazzeded in neon;
dressed in little mismatched socks;
hidden contents in a soup can bag with blonde smile.
but she dresses like tiffany rather then monroe,
waiting always for her breakfast meal
as she primes her colours for a subtle touch
with a simple smile, she greets her peers
modest floats in opaque in a soft porcelain surface;
the same face in different shades along close frames.

sunday morning keep me awake for the west
as the world gets 6 degrees brighter.