What am I?
A thinker, or a faker?
Are my words ever thought out?
Am I ever not doubting myself?

I feel like an imbecile, as all the people around me say; yet
at the same time, there are a few who see an intelligence beneath the parachute blanket wave.

So who is right? The teachers who believe in me or
the people who look down on me?

I wonder if they would be surprised if one day they found that I, the town's idiot; the teenager all the other's were told to stay away from, made something of myself.

I wonder if their opinions of me will have an impact at all.

I think I take them too seriously sometimes.
It's like they forget where they are;
conditioned to sit and wait for death.
Is it my fault I can't be alarmed?

I think it's my fault I pay little attention.
I think it's my fault they are confused,
but is it my fault they hate me?
I think that's up to them; to you.

But don't look for a pattern, because there isn't one.
Don't look for a rhyme scheme, or iambic pentameter,
or any of that nonsense.

Just as the people who judge me look, and then look away, I've written this poem to convey;  literally nothing. Besides the point. Literally nothing.

If you could ever use your brains, little town somewhere North, you would've realized long ago that you were the monument to weirdness, to solitude and idiocy; you were all a part of the plan.

As painful as it sounds to be left behind, now you'll know how it feels.

To the rich who blindly ignore, to the poor who blindly trust, I bid you farewell.

Thank God, in the movement of my feet I trust.