I found a rodent among my waste
It was tasting the filth underneath
Then I shouted at the walls to converge
To take me into eternal night
So I could gaze everlastingly at the moon
And know its crescent intimately

I fashioned my own kind on a scrap of paper
Nothing more than an unused envelope
Then I stabbed it with the pick I used to pick my teeth
When I continually missed the mark
And my gums oozed with blood
But still there the image stood
Nailed to the cloth by a blunted pick

I ushered in the nocturnal peace
Habitual to my seclusion
Then I rummaged in my bin for a bottle
Thinking maybe I discarded little short of a magnum
But all in vain
I demonstrated to the heated air what it looks like to be mad
When a psychotic wish could have sent me
Into oblivion

I used the majesty of morning
To restore myself
Then sought a new holiday beneath a tree
It lasted some several moments
Then a squirrel came near
And I examined the space behind it
Since my focus had been lead astray
And then I vomited some verbal diarea
As a group of youths were walking to school
I hate them
They submitted me to ridicule and contempt
They blasted me with a title
A title I should have stamped on my head
Weirdo
Am I a criminal?
Are my deeds as heinous as genocide?
Do I drink up the blood like a new impaler?
I have yet committed two crimes
Or maybe three or maybe more
But as I borrow fresh insight
During a time when I'm a calm spectator
I see that being a weirdo is a terrible deed
And that being different is an assault
On all things ordinary
On the normal
On that which is acceptable
I stand outside the box
Not by a yard nor even a mile
But a constellation or two
That's my vice
My crime
My horrible aspect
My disaster

And still in some regard
I know I'm the bees knees
My heart is a rich jewel with a broken mind
Pathetically surging in its ideas
Dwelling on those empty promises
Indulging in a negative vibe
Then having the nerve to think of suicide
After I've driven myself to a verge
By an overthought which is always a catastrophe

But then I rise at 3 as the light is brimming over the horizon
And the sound of birdsong instills in me
A longing to thrive and flourish
Like the tormented spirit which stalks the graveyard at midnight
And leaves only when the dead have not replied
To confessions of love and care

I know the world is round
I thought time might be a circle
I dreamed of cycles which behaved like seasons
I craved a warm blanket
Then sank into a perceived demise
And slept
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