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I glance around the room,
And nearly had a claustrophobic breakdown.
There were people everywhere, all wearing the same colors,
Practically wearing the same skin, staring intently at me with a frown.

I look down and yell in the silent room
My voice echoing off the walls.
I appeared to be wearing nothing.
Not just clothes, I had no body at all.

The people started to whisper among themselves.
I wondered for a moment that if this is what it's like to be an animal in the zoo.
And, just like an animal, I yell, I scream at them to go away.
But they just wouldn't stop pointing, as if telling me something I must do.

Little by little, skin appeared around my consciousness.
A shoulder was born...an elbow...a hand and ten fingers with ten fingernails.
Clothes appeared on my skin, their colors exactly like the people around me.
I was complete, but I didn't feel whole, something was off track, off the rails....

I looked down and screamed yet again
The people around me took no notice.
They were merely muttering to themselves, and they sounded satisfied
But I seemed to be the only one to be terrified.

My clothes were transparent, only barely.
Underneath them was a sight horribly scary.
I squirmed and crashed to the floor, making a racket.
For underneath the illusion was a plain white straitjacket.

I was trapped.

I woke up, breathing my hardest yet.
I think I just earned a few scars that I'll never forget.
When I went school, my brain was sore
But it intensified at a sight that shook me to the core.

The people weren't exactly the same
But they all seemed to be thinking of wearing almosr the same things.
Same sort of boots, same sort of symbols on their shirts.
I looked down on my plain gray shirt and black jeans.

What's up with this? Is a question I wanted answered.
It's the new style, that's what I am told.
What is this, some new law? An eleventh commandment?
A rule we have to follow until we are only so old.

What right does anyone have to say how I should look?
What law states that you have to point at me
And comment on my so-called "fashion sense"?
I'm fine just the way I am! Don't tell me who I should be!

It's discrimination, one of a modern form.
Not race, not religion, not gender, my clothes are the new discriminant.
But I swear, if you point at me and tell me to be like everyone else,
I'll just scream, You know what? To hell with your "style" of which you enjoy to rant.

I remember that there was a time when people wore clothes because they were WARM.