All my life I’ve heard
Who I ought to be,
What I must deserve,
And how I should believe
And believe, I do
From the core of who I am
Whatever facets I eschew
Change not the slightest gram
Of the rock that won’t erode,
And the hand that can’t release-
I know that I know that I know;
I believe what I believe.
Then why don’t I conform?
This I cannot say.
The world, to me, feels worn-
And an infantile display
Of youthful promenading
Feathers flaunting wide
Perpetual self-serenading:
A ballad of blinded pride.
I don’t have the energy,
Nor the desire,
To bow to pop-liturgy
Or lift myself higher-
All my oddities abound,
I see they keep me alone.
I wander the hard ground
Ever out of home-
Even these I speak of plainly
I do not dream as accusation
The lone state that pains me
Is of my own creation
Unwilling, or else unable,
To put aside where I am bent-
I don’t fit into the label-
Does that mean I can’t be sent?
Yet in my diminished condition-
Here am I.
Beyond trend or tradition,
I ever testify.
It all boils down to these:
I am, I exist as I, and I believe.
Whatever else they may say of me
Cannot negate these three.
viewingcamelot 
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