Once there was a lass
Planted into a mysterious world
Does not know where to go, how to go
Three lights later, she was found
But it is not the kind of found she desires
Is there even a reason of existence
You want her to question about her sanity
Question about impossibility
Question what is underneath
Question what is on the other side
Do you think to look smart
Or do you think because you want to be mentally deranged
Does being a product mean,
To look unique, to look you know a lot more than anyone
Because insane is the new gain
Insane is the pain
Insanity is my oxygen
Does this look art to you
Just simply spilling her emotions and rants
But in reality she done nothing
So how come you label her as a product?
Everyday, questioned herself if she is even of worth
No matter where angles of skies she looked at , no answers burst
If she was born to be secluded
Does that mean she is out of this world
If she thinks differently
Does she have to change the world?
Should she be drowned in the pills of schizophrenia
To define what real art is?
To defy reality?
Is this enough
If not, then what am I
If not a product, then what
I disgrace sycophants and know-it-alls alike
Except for lucid and heavy dreamers for life
Are we bore to create a fantasy
Or altogether fall with this society
Does living in nomothethic oceans is a mistake
Talk about limitless yet senseful imagery
Chatter away with debates that activate logic which I do not have
What is more likely to balance
When there is a whole solar system to laugh at you
No, I should see more light
But what light shall I find
I do not know what is the real definition of every little thing
But I worry and think of them
They say it is the beauty
What beauty
Underneath or above
Which one did you admire first?
Do I have to question my faith
Do I have to question everything around me
Should I speak like Shakespeare
Should I speak colorful in my own language  than the language that became my mother's tongue
Should I write like an endless dictionary and a multi-faced human
Should I count every star accurately until the fall wither me
Or produce sounds alive like the city of owls
Should I make every human being smile when I cannot smile myself
Should I feel nothing but sadness for eternity
To pity me when I weave with words
Should I play like Arima
Should I paint like a museum artist
Just to call me a talent
Should I perfect my skills of every labor
Should success appear to me like magic
Should I explain the unexplainable
Or should I damage my cerebrum
Before I truly feel intelligent
Should I dance my life away like the Black Swan
Should I be tearing down politicians and teachers
Just to feel worthy
Just to be recognized in the light I desire
Or should I just look in the mirror
To check if my blood veins are still flowing
Real blood, not just veins of vain
Inhaling all the smoke of envy
I sin
I am flawful
I breathe in gold
Just to realize it is old
Just to realize my self-redeement is stone cold
Will you love and be deserved by light like that
Will you realize everyone who reads this has been ugly as well
Will you realize I am not writing about myself
But what we are all afraid to admit the most
Because you are only a person
And once there was an abnormal lass

intelligence is
the new authority
resistance is
the new sanctity
velvety memoir
of the patchy ride
in a rainbow rollercoaster,
left everything prime
on the outside
sink into the wagon with
wild, visceral inside
embark on an odyssey
observing the past,
questioning the future.

future is a distant memory
of all the anachronistic glory.

I really, really don’t want to be beautiful.

I want to make people tremble.

I want to walk into a room and turn people’s heads- not because I’m pretty, but because I walked in with such confidence that people go “****.”

I want the wrong people to be scared by me, and the right people to take me as a challenge, but I want everyone to be intimidated by me.

I want to be the woman no one dares **** with.

I want to be compared to Cleopatra- not in terms of how pretty or symmetrical her face was, but because she seduces men into her bed with her mind and intellect.

I want to be compared to powerful and unstoppable forces of nature, where they aren’t powerful Because of their beauty, but beautiful because of their power.

So this is why I get insulted when you call me pretty before you call me smart.

I was 10 years old
I was an excellent reader
Ahead of my age
I could read for hours a day
Books each night
I was sitting in class that day
Reading aloud
And noting looked different to me
In my mind every word was right where it should be
And mid-sentence I heard it
The shrill voice yelling to read it how it was written
But I was reading it how I saw it in my own eyes
Only my eyes were wrong
Mixed matched and all around wrong
And as smart as I might have been
I was never the right kind of smart

I am the best of the best,
and you can put it to the test
but you will find
that only I am sublime.

Yet, why do I feel this way,
angry and repressed
tired and distressed.
Irritation is my constant state.
and it is increasing at an alarming rate.

Maybe if I could just null the emotion,
To sink beneath the waves of ocean,
To get lost in all the commotion,
To fall in love with self-devotion,
but, no,
forget I even made the notion,
of doing something like letting go.

For it's too easy a way out,
and I will not leave a doubt
that I am here to stay,
much to my own dismay.

Why?
Because, I am the best of the best.
And I have put that to the test.
for better or worse,
my intelligence is a curse.