Rare it seems that I am, a creature of idiosyncratic eccentricities

To some it is a badge of individuality, a crest of creative virtue

For this soul, it seems to be nothing more than just sorrow

To wade around in the waters of humanity, floating with stunted breathing

Never catching on to limbs, rocks that could become my sanctum

Looking at the sky in hurt, wishing to float away from it all

To see the infinite wonder of the cosmos, where I feel I would belong

And maybe it is an attitude of naivety and pretentiousness that I carry

But no joy is taken from it, only dread and somber rains in my hands

And hurt is given to others, from this