Me, the goth

My name is unimportant,
My life is just the same.
People seem to pass me by,
And walk over me again and again.

The look at me as is I'm diseases,
They scowl at what I wear,
They tell me that I'm going to hell,
They tell me to cut my hair.

They don't believe I could be happy,
Because I like the way I look,
They take away that idea of me,
And hang it high upon a hook.

They think I'm always depressed,
Maybe, sometimes granted.
But this again, should not mean
Your views on me are slanted.

So,
You can look at me as if I'm diseased,
You can tell me to cut my hair,
You can tell me that I'm going to hell,
But frankly, I won't care.

[This poem was influenced by a friend of mine. I wrote it because he is always being judged.]