Worth More Dead Than Alive

Despite what they say
I can hold my head up pretty high
And even if all the non-conformists and anarchists
throw their bombs of revolution at me
I'll limp my way home.

But hey,
one day you'll wake up knowing
that your hair is going out of style,
and you ain't getting any where.

Don't get me wrong,
Daddy's little girl's a fucking monster
and Mommy doesn't know what her baby boy
does behind closed doors.
But you adhere to the invisible rules of your peers
that only dub you worthy of social rejection
by the amount of sex you get and the number of beers
you can get your filthy bleeding hands on.

You spend hours in the bathroom
breathing in the chemicals in that hairspray can,
I doubt you can comprehend a simple sonnet that doesn't,
have to do anything with cutting the veins that seem to pump,
the deadly poison you're so convinced runs through your veins.

You hold your shallow conversations loudly
hoping anyone who can hear does.
And you proudly
show anyone all your scars and bruises
from your last fight.

But nobody knows, that at night
you're selling yourself.
With a camera in hand and your top, bra under wear,
what ever you might wear
underneath all your trendy underground clothes, on
you click away.

The price tag grows as you got braver and braver with each shot.
You lack the age of a porn star but you're almost there.
You're too good to be just a prostitute but face it
The colorful ridiculous image you emit
is nothing short of selling yourself.

We're not worthy.
We're not worthy!