The Extremes Poem by April Avalon

She's wearing a plait and a plain floral dress,
Her skin is so pale, and her fringe is a mess.
She can't link three words in the simpliest phrase,
And ignorance left dirty marks on her face.
Her look is so frightened, her thoughts are a dump,
She's shallow, naive, indecisive and numb.
She won't ever part with her old silver cross,
The symbol of nothing aside from her loss
Of I-do-create-my-own-destiny power.
Poor thing, she's still waiting for her fatal hour.

He's wearing piercings and torn baggy jeans,
He's now in his twenties, but looks like a teen.
He's always in fight with those two shameless queers,
Who play homo-love right in front of their peers.
Turn back, and you'll see lady-like prostitutes,
In both the word's meanings. Well, look at that dude!
He's ready to take them, two ones at a time,
And rape them. Oh, wait, it does sound like a crime.
I'm smiling at them while I'm passing them by,
Continuing singing this song in my mind.

I'm so sick of living among this gray mass,
Where everyone claims to be always the best.
The philistine's life is so tragic and dim,
It's walking in circles between the extremes.

The weak stick to models, sometimes till the end.
Religion, street-walking just drive me dement!
The list could go on. It's the same boring theme.
And fighters are always beyond the extremes.

I'm so sick of living among this gray mass,
Where everyone claims to be always the best.
The philistine's life is so tragic and dim,
It's walking in circles between the extremes.