Poetry

Misfit

I wonder sometimes
How is it that anything I do
Or anything is say,
Anyway I play
Or even how I pray,
It is always too little
For what the world demands.

The World. Who is he? Or is he?
I am the world. Or am I?
If I’m the world, how is it that
I’m deficient for myself?
And if I’m not the world,
How is it that I care so much
for him to care for me,
Or some love
for him to spare for me?

With growing times
A feeling has grown inside
That I am a misfit
In this world of perfection, if you will.
I am a mishit
In this world of bulls eye, if you will.

Well, don’t pity me. Because I don’t.
I don’t fit hypocrisy, fine by me.
I don’t fit treachery, fine by me.
I don’t hit practicality,
I embrace insanity.
All fine by me.

Being unfit to fit on the swing of sense
Is not all that cry worthy, after all.
Though I’m not a rhyming verse,
Being odd is not a curse.
Trust me, if you will.


Photo Credit: johnhain

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