I hear their murmurs everywhere,
The girls who,
Dwell on doing their hair.
I ponder how the halls
Are their shrines,
Their names are heard in relentless calls.
Their phones are diligent,
Slaving away,
To their friends, these messages are sent.
They covet,
Being notorious,
A glamorous star, with a private jet.
Molded plastic.
Robots.
Every word on their lips becomes sarcastic.
You see the beckoning,
For attention,
Their hearts just singing.
You hear widespread,
Gossip, more popular,
Than the newspaper you once read.
But behind their eyes,
So adored and envied,
You see their cries—
To be unique.