normalMature

somedays,

I’m paralyzed by the crippling fear

that because I am so weird,

nobody will ever like me.

 

I survived high-school and all it’s social cliques

by being myself and not giving a shit,

and, subsequently,

I never attended a single party,

never got stupidly drunk and vomited on my parent’s sofa.

I was stupidly good.

And so when I graduated and began the quest

of finding myself outside of those secondary walls,

I realized that I would rather pretend

than be eccentric,

I would rather be normal and loved,

than myself and lonely.

 

So I retired my wings and fairy dust,

locked them into a vault of hopes and dreams,

coloured my hair a regular shade

and stopped asking people if they read poetry.

I stopped writing and wanting to write

because my life had become so

boring.

 

But deep down inside, I’m still afraid

if my freak flag flies,

everyone else

will run away.

The End

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