Observing the imperfections of his life
His destructive thoughts cause tornadoes which lead him to emotional turmoil
His inadequacies are his heartbeat,
A constant reminder as to why he will never be great
His mind,
Like the flow of a river
Meanders through darkness,
In the hopes of reaching the seas of inner peace.

He enjoys the silence
The silence which listens
The silence which does not seek perfection,
But originality
The silence which does not crave understanding,
But admiration
The silence which for once,
Desires his presence.

As others fear to touch his skin
As others fear to listen to the words he speaks,
The words which dance in the wind
Is he non-existent
Or does he only exist in the reflection of his own?