I am obsessive
Though my room is a mess
Please don’t touch a thing

Don’t make me
Change or conform
Because that is my fear

But I am obsessive
A creature of habit
Set schedules

A slow walker or
A bump in the road
And I may lose it all
  
Because I am obsessive
I will cry over
Spilled milk

My absolute weakness
Is embarrassment
Head down to walk

Will I be obsessive
When it all goes wrong
I surely will break

How can I live
When my world is
A mess in the neat lines

I’m obsessed with
Poetry- lines and stanzas
All in neat rows

All spaces and ink
Covering my paper
And, yes I am still obsessive

She Tried so hard and it Hurt
             when she Failed

covered in scribbles and light gray lines,
             she couldn’t erase.
sour notes, wrong keys that Frustrated her

                                                            ­ No matter how hard you try

a trail of dust where a ball hit the ground,
             she was out.
so many different ways that Never Quite Satisfied

                                                      ­      No matter how hard you try

smiles in corridors at people and Inwardly,
             she laughed to herself.
Awkward conversations and vital Missing Details

                                                        ­    No matter how hard you try

so many opinions they Hid behind masks,
             she in her room.
word after word that just Couldn’t get the point across

                                                         ­  No matter how hard you try
        
                               ... you will fail
                               ... until you don’t

        She grew impatient.
        She Gave Up.

But where is the place for the people like us?
The artists, the cutters, the solemn observers.
Every INFJ. Every poisoned mind. Every social awkward with so much depth they just might sink.
The ones who have found their soul but are searching for their mind.
The ones who find their mind by losing their marbles.
The misrepresented and misunderstood.
The hurt and the happy.
With a requirement of so much patience and love that no one is willing or able to give.
The ones who make adjustments.
Who hit rock bottom and manage to get back up on their own.
The ones who fall too fast for something out of reach. They end up quietly crashing and burning.
The ones who are living under layers of paint; on their hearts and in their homes. Whose sweetness and innocence are buried somewhere underneath the paint, barely recognizable.
The ones who were born with a fifty year old soul.
Who have a biologically memorized speech that no one will hear; that no one can hear.

I ask you, where will they go, the people like us?