I have become an outcast to your eyes
I do not want to be a foreigner in your past
I am writing a poem for your name
do not count me as a stranger

I don't want to be something, I want to be someone*
I found that written in my bio book
To be someone
to matter
isn't that what everyone wants?
no one wants to be something
an object
used
sadly I never feel like a someone
I feel like a wall most of the time
I'm there, supporting
but no one talks to a wall
no one cares about a wall
people lean on walls
and walls protect people from outside forces
but no one protects the wall
That's why I'm the wall.
I'm there for support, but no one's there to support me.
I guess I really resonate with the quote above, I don't want to be an object
I don't want to be used, I want to be someone not something....
I wonder when I'll no longer be a wall
when I'll be a person
alive

We write to reach out
to anyone
who is close enough
to read the words
that spill from our minds
Trying
without gain
for those that stop
to make them see
to make them stay
If only long enough to feel again
but as is the way of things
they linger for just a moment
then continue on their way
as the world stops for no one
and surely not for the troubled writer
lost in isolation
and ever searching
for a friend

Live in the shadows
And flee from the sun,
An army of rebels
Marching as one.
Mingle your voice
With the other outcasts,
Your single goal
Is to simply outlast.

No one is perfect
Or expected to be
Unless you happen to share a gene or two with this sort
And as if their generation was completely right
(the pattern of perceived perfection is a long lineage)
They pass their judgment
One generation to the next
The gossip makes its way across state lines
The tale of manipulation and corruption
Bred within our borders
Finds its place with mythical tales
Of mobsters and cat burglars
On cops

You work your magic
Sweet-talking people out of money
Not even Satan’s speech was so smooth
Talent for memorizing numbers
Credit card
Pin
But not your grandmother’s
Stuns all
If she knew of your antics
Pallbearers would have a heavy load
But fear not
Keeping secrets from the old and feeble
Is our talent

He walked around the crowded streets, streets filled with party goers and drunken teens
He didn’t know where he was going, his mind housed those gruesome images
Replaying in his head over and over again
It was a Friday night, although it really didn’t matter because he never had plans regardless of the day
He had bigger things that he had to mentally face
A psychological sciamachy if you will– an imaginary enemy that he wanted….no needed to ****.
It left his mind all dark and dreary, filled his heart with raging fury
And he couldn’t understand why or how he got like that.
In school he was the definition of a social outcast, not fit to be amongst the cherished few
but if only they knew because the biggest outcast in the school
Was also the strongest, for if they were to even attempt to take on his struggles
I doubt any of them would still be alive to tell their story
But back to that night out on the streets, the night he was stuck walking aimlessly
He ended up on top a roof..staring up at the clear black sky admiring its site, not one star visible because of the bright city lights
He didn’t care, he was caught in some trance
Even with his glossed eyes you wouldn’t really know the state he was currently in at first glance
Cold and disheveled he had nothing else left, he was alone even with the dozens of people next to, behind and ahead of him
Stepped on the edge of the building and whispered “Its already broken”
The ones who were once strong sometimes fall

And he was one of them.

I am odd
Some would say
But not to me
Living here in my own skin
My castle of bones
Listening to words
Beating like my heart
Some would say
I am odd
But not to me