I thought I could conform,
wanting to become part of the pack.
I dressed differently;
closed my mouth more.
I tried to be less caring yet more selfless
hoping to become more desirable.

It didn't work.

I wore black.
I abstained from interests in favor of theirs.
I slept only with candles for warmth
and bathed in ice water.
I froze.
I laughed at the idiocies protruded from their mouths,
trying to fit in, but stay me.
I was brainwashed.
I ate kosher for a year and a day.
I drank tea to bleach me inside.
I prayed to Mother Earth and Father Sky for strength as the moon waxed,
but was weakened when they turned away my heart at Witching Hour,
and thought I would die from the cold.

I did what I thought was good,
thinking blending wasn't a bad idea.
But still deep inside me is the need to know:
was adapting always like this?

I try avoiding emotions.
I'm a criminal,
and they're bounty hunters.

I fear my mind.

They chase me down.
Syrens echo from behind,
pinning down thoughts
with "love" on their badges.

God forbade happiness.
I took a chance
and ran through the storm.
He threw lightning and fire down the road
but didn't stop me.
I said,"To hell with it";
the clouds finally parted
and bade,"Amen."

The sun was brighter.

I talk to an owl
who's more than a friend.
Our youth's gone with the wind.
He doesn't know how much this means.
****, it might be too late.

That never bothered him none.

Visions come and go
with Hollywood scandal and rumor.
And I envision peace
like the millenial I apparently am.
I ask myself,
"Who do I think I am?"

Another man gets shot
and services air on the news.
The uproar gets absurd.

We burn dinosaurs
and holes in Purgatory.
Now we live in digital Hell
but there's no place like home.

Confrontation takes zen
and throws it to the dogs.
It runs through my mind like,
"Who do you think you are?"
Must it come to this
every time I think?

My afflictions may never be heard.

I listen to the lyrics of the world,
damaged goods and sinners;
think,

"Why?
Why should I care about them;
about what's out there;
about me?"

Then I see you.

All alone, usually.
It makes a sad, sad elegy.

Even though you say,
"Relationships ****,"
I feel differently.

Ballads of love and unity are one of a kind,
conjuring sounds that make you even more euphoric when you talk your sweet talk,
and walk that confident yet conscious stride.

Will this ever be a love,
or will it be a tango of emotions mixed and tormenting?

It's estranging,
feeling this way,
writing of it.

But,
it feels right.

Desperate,
clingy and bizarre;
but right.

No matter what,
I listen to your songs,
in hopes that,
one day,
we'll create our own music.

A realm where we care,
everyone else petty, dishonest devils.
We ended up here for one reason or another.
We'll survive this hell.
Together.

I'll show you a new ballad,
dancing while it lasts to distract from the flames arise.
Show me the meaning and feel of your genius which hides like a turtle roasted for soup.
Let's make our own music,
for atheist ritual,
for you and me,
me and you.
Together.

The one that watches for you,
and you for me,
is right here.
I don't mind being there,
but I'm a Mammon for romance.

Part of my genius, I guess.

I know you prefer handsome women.
But I wait,
like a mare,
that,
for me,
you'll make an exception.

I know it's not what will become.
Life isn't what I desire it to be.
But my heart can't stop wailing and crying like a banshee,
especially when I need you to save it from the succubi of my life.

You probably don't know about these,
my words and thoughts of my own Shakespeare gone tragic.

But,

I hope for this,
for us,
and the life we bring about,
create,
and share,
hand in hand,
eye to eye,
mouth to mouth,
heart to heart.
Together.

Their voices ring like wedding bells.
Concern written in the air;
Frustration felt for miles;
Shaking my bones; oh Lord.
I prayed to God this day wouldn't come,
but I see demons in Momma's eyes;
the Devil in the calendar; marked December in red.

The leaves turn black as we pack,
dancing to the music of trucks and men.
Tape for streamers; boxes, balloons;
the goodbye party I never had.

Their faces hurt most,
saying bye as Daddy yelled from home.
The bustle of New York, unpacked in oil country.
Hurrying to fate; a cancerous grief, stricking lightning in my heart and eye.
Nobody likes me here, let's go back!

The leaves were black when we unpacked,
dancing to the music of trucks and men.
Tape for streamers; boxes, balloons;
the welcome party I never had.

I looked to you as the sun set,
but you turned your head to look at girls passing by.
**** it.
You made it impossible to connect
until the breeze blew your ego to the Ocean,
and it seemed you got the girl.
Good for you.
I'm still alone in the sand, my sandcastle incomplete.

We're both scarred;
been there, done that.
Too bad you push it overboard.
Why can't I hate you for that?

You made happiness,
You made tears,
You made them salty like BP in the Gulf.
I was looking for something special,
but that ship has sailed.

Would you be sad if I died right now?
Would you come to my service?
Feel anything past yourselfness?
Give my family your condolences?

What would you say?
Would it be:
"We come here to observe the death of a boy quite strange, with no real friends,
whose presence will soon be forgotten?"
Or nothing at all?

I thought the answer was obvious.
But,
obviously,
I was wrong.

Am I wrong?