she wore bows on her shoes
I thought about the old days
the heathens walk near,
their looks blank and dumb as always
the mainstream, those that betray us,
those that stumble through life
they walk in packs, we hide our secret selves,
hoping they don’t sniff us out
as intellectuals, or those who actually care,
or give a damn about something
so they walk in packs
and we kid ourselves with culture
we kid ourselves that we’re better
we put on neckties like nooses
we wear lipstick and blush and other forms of war paint
we write books, and tell stories, and look at art
I think about the past, I collect objects that inspire
and she wears shoes with pretty little bows
and really, we’re not much different than them