Yes, I'm disturbed
This much is true
But the question is
How much more
Am I than you?
The problem we have
Is opinion you see
You call me sick
Though I think it's you
Not me
True, my thoughts, fleeting at best
And my conscience won't sleep
Through a tortured nights rest
My heart does bleed
For the innocent and meek
And my soul prays for peace
Everyday of the week
But I'd rather live
the way that I do
Than to be cold-hearted,
Unfeeling,
And perfect like you
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Perfect People, interesting write. Sometimes they only see things as on the surface and never wanting to see the ugly or the bad. They can't understand one who may have problems or not quite like them. In all that I can be, I rather be as I am with my faults and all and be able to feel for another than to be someone who has eyes and yet can't see.