There is a funny little thing
About being slightly different,
People seem to stop and stare,
Curse and be persistent.
The whisper when I walk by,
And I some how miss all the parties,
Say I've been horribly wrong,
And am wanted by authorities.
When really I've done nothing more,
Than challenge their reality,
And why would I hang out with stiffs,
Stuck in that reality.
But I wont take it personal
I understand its fear,
But I'm still going to make those sounds,
That only other freaks can hear.
StronheartWS '09
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem