I wanna be a New Yorker.
I wanna live in a tall glass tower, where the wallpaper is
covered in textures flowers and there’s not only bathrooms but a room dedicated
to one big shower.
I wanna be Queen B. I wanna prance around my expensive
private school with everyone worshipping me. I wanna get over heartbreaks in
the company of my maid watching re-runs of Glee. I wanna own the shops on 34th
street.
I want a man as complex as Chuck Bass, the air to the Empire
and settles for nothing less than 5 class. I want to eat in the most expensive
joints and watch the celebrities pass, I want a pair of Chanel jeans just for
the logo on my ass.
I wanna throw parties just because I can, fly to Paris for a
custom made dress and grab a pair of heels from Milan. I want a stylist like
Gok-Wan, be admired by the press on the arm of my Forbes list man.
I wanna feature on a blog where the city relishes on my
drama, I want a loyal best friend and clique acting as human armour. I want to
own a yacht, waiting for me to take it out on the harbour and twiddle my thumbs
about who’s the lucky father.
But I’ve gotta admit, if this lifestyle is as exhausting to
live as this poem is to write, then I wanna stay in Birmingham, snuggled up
with my cats every night. I’d maybe trade a moment to sparkle in the limelight
but at the end of the day I think my life is just fine.
I like my deep green garden and my hilly view and I adore my
knock-off unfashionably comfortable ankle boots.
I like my quant welcoming room and my quiet street, not that
I’d say no to a day shopping with the elite.
I like how my life isn’t sprawled online for the world to
see,
You know…I’m happy being me.
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