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Poem

Steampunk? The old man guesses. He is past death age.
Goth laughs, understanding she has the upper hand.
I dare not add to it yet; in hologram mode, with robotic arm moves.
Green glow of a digital clock tries to chastise me.
Punish others, I think. You cannot catch me.

I like it, the old man states, less sure of himself this time.
Demons of idiocy must be driving his mouth. Why is he still here?
They are waiting for me to make a mistake.
Performance art, someone else whispers, daring to try.
I roll my eyes inside my head, silently making fun of her.
A loud cackling witch-like sound is inside my imagination.
Laughing full out.

Part of me is angry that she dared.
The other part hopes she is wrong.
For I am Type A and if Type A does not get the win,
I might as well be joining the old guy in the death coffin.
I am touching purple now, plucking out my eyes, tasting weapons.
What is your thought? The band leader asks me.
I say nothing, devouring my own soul, afraid to try.

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