Scream | A Poem

A poem written in a fever of frustration. I know to many people who are not what they say they are. It drives me mad when people are like this.

Many people call me quirky.

I know I am strange.

How I act

and how I think

does not

match the status quo.

While I admit,

not agreeing to the norm,

not swimming downstream,

not following the trend

has its difficulties.

But at least I know who I am.

I know I am not like everyone else.

And I do not resent it.

Unlike so many

that hide,


behind masks made of false truths.

Veiled with cloths

spun from poison.

They are mere illusions of themselves.

So afraid of what other people will say,

what others will do,

that they would rather scar their identity,

than be proud

of who they are.

They stare vacantly into the void,


I find them both pitiful

and shameful.

They are better than this.

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