Maybe I've too much personality,
Too much for your acclimatised minds,
to control or deal with.
My thoughts, feelings
well, they're just not wanted, are they?
You're happier for me to fade, fade to a dull grey,
be so quiet.
When my teeming mind, escapes
breaks the generally accepted blankness (oh just from me and other crushed souls)
I'm silenced with your filthy expressions
or overly-thought stabbing comments.
I go quiet again.
You notice? Oh you don't care.
It lets you keep the pathetic spotlight?
The spotlight of immature useless gossipings, social ways, and cruel child-like bitterness.
I've calmingly come to know something;
something that dulls your knives:
It doesn't matter.
I don't need to be acclimatised.
Who, just who, said I'd to be - be like you?
No-one said. And if someone thought?
Well, I question.
Maybe I'm, yes, that's me, and all that makes me, me
Doing just fine
In the way I roll.
I don't have to be like you.