Young Punk Girls
(an ode to you)
Your hair glistens,
Your pink spikes smell of glue.
Your eyes examine the floor,
Bitter and burned out.
Your t-shirt clings
to your bra-less chest seductively.
The spikes and studs
adorning your wrists
are ready to slam into a skinheads face.
Torn jeans are patched
with bright plaid patches.
Doc Marten boots
are scuffed and mud-caked.
You loudly sing along
to the Casualties,
Fugazi,
or NOFX.
Piss drunk,
You stumble over the words.
The guys may laugh
at you in the pit.
Well fuck them.
'cause you're tougher than they are.
I found out
as your fist collided with the bridge of my nose.