I try to paint a painting
Yet I lack the proper colors
I try to make a cake
But have no pans
Or oven for that matter
I try to plant flowers
But have no soil
Or water
I try to send a gift
But have no ribbon
No tape
I try to fit in
But have no place to fit into
Or anything to fit into that place
I try to be nice
But lack people to be nice to
I try to act tough
But have been beaten to my core
And so raw that the gentlest touch burns
I try to make friends
But don’t have the proper ingredients
Or the correct molds
I try to play games
But have no toys
or boards
I try to count
But received no numbers
I try to understand
But I lack the comprehension
Why are people so cruel?
So full of ridicule
That they feel they
Have the right to judge you
For who you are not
Not a book by the cover
Not engraved in stone
Not made from the exact DNA as all the others
Not like you
No matter how much you wish it
I’m just not
I am different
If we were all the same
What would be the point?
If you’re lacking in all the materials
How can you be expected to
Do it by the book
If the book of yours
Has different instructions?
You can’t be.
No one can.
Why then are you expected to?
The status quo.
The popularity contest.
The Putting ON A Show.