Fancy makeup did not a Goth make. Or so they say. I wasn't made up in the least, pale skin was natural to one who saw little sunlight. I blame this on my mother. Dark hair ran fast and strong thanks to my father's natural heritage. As for the black clothing, Hey, it's cold in winter! I need something to soak up some of the sun that's still there! Lord knows my skin's not going to do it. Anyway.

It's a stark contrast between being 'in' or being 'out'. The method of payment has always been one's creativity. I walk down the lonely city streets at night sometimes and find my sense of style, isn't solely my own. One minute I'm "the freak job". The next, "everyone's doing it". Funny how society goes from being cliqued, right into being merged. I find it a strange concept in turn for the days to go from being normal and sunny, to dark and dismal thanks to the insane ranting of one said 'dark poet'. Poe was a madman and a genius all in one. Remember that.

Sitting in a cafe all day was not my idea of fun, listening to the drone and spite of an angry teen, clashing on society and the government for 'keeping us down'. Us? Who are we? I am sorry little man, but my views on what is 'in' and what is 'out' is not what you think it is. Yes you may wear black makeup, clothes, and clown white face paint. But that isn't what makes you -me-.

There are so many different things I watch going on today, in the news our "subculture" is being ridden as the number one reason of teen suicides and attacks against other people. Why in the world would being 'Goth' be a reason for people to do -anything-? Why is it that suddenly, 'Goth' is an excuse to escape? Before it used to mean and be something that people with the interest of 'dark' thoughts or senses, could classify them into something other than the 'freak'. Now we're looked upon with ridicule, scorn... even punishment, for being 'us'.

I remember a time in which everyone could be equal in such a society. It didn’t matter what the color of your skin was... if you knew your ideals. An exchange and play over the world we live in cast in shadows and ghost like images, where Halloween meant something more than tricks, treats, and candy. The truest sense of the word meant 'individuality'. Not 'assembly'. How the world has changed, all too quickly.

The boy on the stage has continued his drawling. My annoyance has become from slow to nigh. He knows nothing about what he talks about. "We are a people misunderstood! We must band together as a velvet shadow, and stand tall against the oppressors of the modern world! We are a community of darkness! We are Goth!"

Ai-me but this boy really is annoying. To my friend's dismay and a possibly annoying glare, I rose from my seat, not to applaud this, child of misery, for anything. But to speak my mind in the middle of an open mic. I was asked by him if I would like to make comments to the crowd, and with a haphazard smirk, I nodded.

"This world used to be something to be proud of. I remember when the word "Goth" used to stand for a certain type of architecture. Now it's just a lame excuse for people to be "better"." Oh how horrible the looks were when I spoke. And yet still I continued on. "The basis of Goth was not to be able to fit into one 'form' of a clique in society. It wasn't meant for angsty little children to write insane amounts of bad poetry just to say the three simplest words of "I hate you". It's become something more of a joke now." Oh how they loathed me speaking, still I went on. "The society around us depicts us as sad, depraved, depressed, and all around strange little people. We frighten them, perhaps reasonably so. The trench coat mafia is something of a joke to me, why on earth would anyone make such a thing as "the gothic movement"? We are -not- a rambling army of children looking for a quick fix to end our hatred of things we fucked up with. Being Goth -used- to mean, being original."

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The crowd was silent perhaps awed. Or maybe outraged, I couldn't tell which. But my speech had begun to draw the attention of not only the patrons, but the staff and a few outsiders as well. "We are not meant to band together like a mindless colony of workers without originality, we are not here to write bad poetry and lament the loss of a loved one as if we had just killed a god. Where has our mind gone that we can no longer find it within ourselves to be apart from everyone else? All I see in this 'Goth' society today are the corporate peons of yesterday. I'm sorry little boy, but your makeup is too thick, and daddy buying you hip black clothes that you rip and dress up with fishnets, does not make you Goth."

I remember pulling my hair down from the topknot ponytail I had down, running a hand up under it, to let it fall flawlessly over my shoulders, to frame my face as I narrowed my eyes. Like a mad dictator, I stood and lectured these ‘children’ on what I had seen, from a individuality I used to love, turning into a clique I’d formed to hate. "Your tearful lamenting, your swooning and crooning over the death of a musician who 'spoke your soul' is not what makes you 'Goth'. It is your 'thoughts'. Within context. Within reason. You are meant to be an individual soul. Not part of some strange, invisible matrix where you’re numbered by the society you live in. You're no longer "Paul" or "Nancy" "Sven" or "raven". You're numbered. One through one million. Pick a number, you're probably it."

I was beginning to draw ever closer a crowd, perhaps I stung the little ones, and awoke the real among the countless masses, the faces were a mixture of rage, and relief, to some I was a devil, to others, an angel in disguise. "Take up your mind and put it back in your head! Stop this incessant ranting of others being 'unfair'. Stop the madness of your lame poetry and baleful words! You are not 'Goth'. You are a 'peon'."

I ended in such short notice, causing an outrageous amount of snarls from all around. And yet I ignored it all, my hair smoothed back, and pulled into a tail at the nape of my neck, a stalk from the center and to the door, and a smile crossed my lips. The butterflies and tight grip in my throat had faded, I had spoke my mind, and ignored the reactions of the select few that were still stuck in the mainstream. The stereotypical meant little more to me than an insect looking for food through my skin. Stacie came up behind me, to tell me I was insane, ask why I did such a thing.

"Why?" I asked. "Because I had to. I'm tired of this 'life' becoming an excuse for 'daddy's girl' and 'momma's boy' to rant out their frustrations while having a near perfect life. I do not want to hear anymore sappy "my life is at an end, my love is over" poetry bull. I want FIRE! I want SOUL! I want people with a HEART to be in this life with me. I want individuals! I want for one person to stand up and say, they are 'Goth'. And actually mean it. This world has gone from being good, to being simple-minded and a place for 'groupies' to hang out. I'm sick of it." My hand went to my chest, and I attempted to swallow back the heart that had leapt to my throat, while sighing and speaking again. "I want to see one person walk up, and prove to me they are worthy of the word. But alas, the world is simple as always, and only a select few remain." My steps began to take me, to the one place I called home; I waited for no word to be said to me, only to ignore the lazy lump of a father I had sleeping on the couch. Inwardly I chuckled, he was still in his Sunday best, and perhaps work had been too much for him.

My mother on the other hand was a tiny little woman, long tresses of auburn hair and dazzling green eyes greeted me in such a tizzy of giddiness it was almost overwhelming. “How was the poetry reading?” She asked. And softly I smiled, a slight chuckle to my voice, my fingers on the rail of the stairs, and I tilted my head in thinking, licking over my lips before I sighed and smiled to her gently. She wasn't aware of the society I'd just confronted, she never would be. For now, I was a 'momma's boy' like the rest. And I stalked to her, curled my arms around her, and hugged her tightly, resting my head on her shoulder, looking up to her with a childish grin, before I released her and walked to the stairs.

"It was the same as always momma. Me against a thousand bees. But for once. I feel good. I think for once, I got through the hive, and met the queen." She didn't understand, she never did, and I’d keep it that way. I idled up the stairs, and slipped into the darkness of my room, the posters of a dark content hanging on the wall, greeted me with grinning glares, and yet I ignored them, falling back into the four poster bed and staring up at the sky. I smiled and nodded to the ceiling above me, and spoke as if someone were there. "I did your bidding, though they say worshipers of your counterpart, I did everything I did for you. I don't know if you're Allah, or god, Jesus or whatever, I don't really care. I just hope you're satisfied. I spoke my piece. I made them think... and I did it all for you."

There's just one question I ask to the people who see this little clip out of my menagerie of ideas. Which side do you stand on? Are you in the beehive? Or are you an individual? If you find out... let me know.