Sleeping beside rocks and ants, Roaming the vast fields like it was their own Laughing, breathless angels of a blurred heaven, Everyone thought they've gone mad While I say they are just a different kind of brilliant
Living in oddly colored homes, Rusty ceilings and ******* garages, Singing their hearts out to the hum of a broken stereo Everyone snickers at their bliss But I say they are just a different kind of brilliant
Painting stories in abandoned walls They feel the world is as beautiful as tattered pieces of clothing As delightful as the scars and bruises in their knees But the crowd can only feel ugliness For these free spirits who are a different kind of brilliant
It makes me wonder, everyday, Why the world runs on similarly crooked ideals Plenty of despising, cynicism, pessimism —more cynicism When at the end of it all You and me We're all just a different kind of brilliant
I love how this poem came in my mind at just the right time. I'm planning on redrafting this as many times as I can until such time this deserves to get printed in my personal book of poems.