I do believe I’m stuck in a box

 I’m put up against all these preps, all these jocks

They can laugh, they can stare

After all, I’ve understood, that is why they are there

From the clothes to the pose to the stuck up nose

They’re all full of hate, conceit , and it grows

They’re beautiful people from afar

Happy little teens that drive nice cars

Look a little closer and her face is a disaster

Make up hairspray and perfume, she’s plastered

 Enough to hide a face that could be backwards

Or fractured.

Or Shattered.

Or a public hazard.

And that’s just the start.

Wait til you get past the plastic heart.

Inside makeup caked skin lies a beast

Her soul dark enough to detour any priest

She’ll eat you alive and when she’s done with the feast

She won’t even cry, or so much as glance at the deceased

Thank God

Thank God

I don’t own a hotrod.