A bit of me to spoil the pages now.
A little *****
Single words bite me
Strange.
Just like how they whispered about me years ago
Nothing cool about dresses they said
But I loved them
I stopped wearing them
Traded them for grunge jeans and
Board shorts
But there was always a book by the *** wax in the slouch bag
Two inches of paradise and silverfish
I found few precious others like me
They moved on to normal
I stayed awkward
Inverted
With just enough wit to keep
Some around.... sometimes.
Most times I just recoil like the slapped hand of a happy child
Just how the "F" word hits on sunday morning.
I endure apologies for what they are
Admissions of poorly trained minds
I am not breathable
I am not the one who can be invigorated
Nor can I invorigate
I just think too much, too differently
To ever be understood
Or to understand
I've always slept facedown on the lowest cloud
Nearer heaven gives a better view of hell.