There is something wrong with me.
I can tell by the looks upon their faces:
sneering, judging, laughing.

But why must they act so? Are they truly so better than I?
Who says they can giggle and smirk
when I cannot pronounce a single word?
Yet they mumble and stumble across every line,
a product of the monotony that rules their daily lives.

They say I have the face of a rotting toad,
picked clean of its beautiful bones.
Who gives them the right to decide
what is the moon shines and the sunlight that blinds?
I see their masks of paint and self hate
and wonder how they can live to be so fake?

My clothes! they cry, a snarl in their eyes,
are the words the socialite describes
to be the epitome of communist life.
What is wrong with that which was once silk
but has become cloth overnight?

This mind of mine is not right, they decide,
and give me medicine to fight off that
which they say keeps me dead but truly keeps me alive.
They wish to turn me into one of them, and I shall not have it!
My imagination is no lie, no false prophet in disguise,
just a boy with nothing better in life.

There is something wrong with me!
I can tell upon the looks in their eyes,
snarling, crying, despising.
But I do not mind. I am myself, and that is just fine.