The dark hands trembled,
veins below the thin skin;
dry eyes searching into the sky
hoping for rains that may
wash away their 'original sin'.
There will be light one day
at the end of this tunnel,
where they are the outcastes and
pariahs in the men's jungle.

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We are all outcast in our own stories....

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Outcast

We are the outcasts,
the excess in the world of men,
we are "unique" in terms :
on the white an unhealthy stain.
With our ways, we are free,
exiled in freedom, in a world vast,
to do better to be accepted,
will still be doings of an outcast.
Who cares then ? Bend the rules
let the world go to hell,
we are as we are :
The authors of our own damn tale.

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You cannot change the world by conforming to it.
If you want to change the tides,
expect a storm.

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Sometimes I feel like a black sheep. Like an outcast, someone "special", complicated, and psychotic. Sometimes I feel like black licorice and rainy weather. Sometimes I feel like the porn stash on an addicts computer whose wife ignores. Sometimes I feel like the tiny sip at the end of a water bottle, unwanted. Sometimes I feel like the texts sent at 2:58 a.m. that only mean one thing. Sometimes I feel like the short of an unfiltered cigarette. Sometimes I feel like the scars reminding us that the past was real. Sometimes i feel like a piece of the condom wrapper left on the floor only for the wrong person to find. Sometimes I feel like a penny accidentally dropped, but purposefully left. Sometimes I feel like the shopping list left on the counter thats not worth turning around for. Sometimes I feel like the last bit of cocaine on the back of a dirty, public, toilet. And finally, sometimes, I feel like the mediocre song, skipped because everyone's heard it way too many times.

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