Cut Up Hair

Sitting around 

a new day in town.

Start a new year

all my friends are here.

The look at me 

and all they see

is my cut up hair.

"It was my choice!"

I strain my voice

with how many times I tell them.

"Lesbian!" 

"Gay!"

"She's some type of way,"

with those new fangled locks of hers.

So I sat back to see

how they bullied me 

for something I can replace.

No doubt in my mind

nor bat of an eye

I got the hell out of that place.

Long locks of lust

a booming new bust 

hormones hit my face.

Now I can realize

how daft everyone is 

when one thing's considered a discrace.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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