I know I'm kind of odd
And weird and
Out of place sometimes.
But that doesn't give you
The right to tell me
That I'm wrong
Or stupid
Or ask what the hell
Am I doing
With a face that struggles
To keep itself straight.

Try not to laugh
At my antics
Or scoff at my freedom.
My pain is real
And profound
But that doesn't
Make you ideal.

I've always had
This free-spirited
Carefree
Out-of-control
Personality
That masks itself
In charms and
Childish grins.

What is it about me
That bothers you so?
Why do you pull
Faces at me
When I try to be me?