Another miserable day.
For me.
The odd offending out cast.
Ostracized imbecile.
Anti social apathetic apophenia.

Finding patterns in nothing.
Curt blasphemies.
Paranoid projections.

And, I'm frustrated.
With how incapable I am.
At intuiting.
Anything social.

And.

If this rage had a direction.
It would be inside.
Even though it's other people who make me mad.

Being strange is a sentence.
Assuming I'm a drug addict.
Cause I don't wear ugly jeans and terrible tshirts.

What did multiculturalism ever get me.
Besides being judged.

On how I look.
By musty smelling.
Strangers.

And, friend.
I don't look good.
To you.

Cause you have no taste or
spark of creativity.
Maybe try something sensible.
That everyone else does.
***** dismal polo shirts.
Tacky khakis.

I wouldn't care.
If I didn't have to.
Talk to you.

In your.
Broken English.

You mistake beautiful soliloquies to myself.
For stupidity.
Cause you ain't got a lexicon.
Enough to comprehend what I say.

And, your terrible mispronounced nonsense.
Is incomprehensible.

But, I guess.
I'm the strange one.

I'm the drug addict degenerate.
Who you won't hire.
Because of your cultural assumptions.
You imported.
Here.

My so called home.

Stranger in a strange land.
That used to be where I lived.