People love to say
"I am different, like
None another"
They never say it
In as many words
But I've seen the
Ones who do.
These are the ones
Who'd talk a lot
Who'd hate you
Who'd pick a fight with you
Who'd make you sweep their homes
Who'd finish the last ounce
In your bottle of water
Who'd talk behind your back
Who'd spend more time near the mirror
Than near good music
Or near those
Vast worlds within pages
Who'd envy you
For being different
Yet everyone is
And so are they,
And they are right
They are different
From
The ones who are.

I am drunk, destitute
Debauched and dangling
Between men who'd
Like me to say things
They'd like to hear
And do things
That would brace their world,
The world they've known
As children,
Unscarred by the written word
Or untouched by
Life's crags and clefts
But soon solitude's persistence
Leads me to give in
To be accepted,
And as I do so,
I lose Myself,
Little by little.

Sometimes, I have
Nothing to say
And the silence
Says as much as
Words could
Because in the white light
Of the squared room,
Filled with, men and women
I could raise as my own,
My walking away
Speaks for me.