Morning. Thoughts about me is the only thing
Floating in my mind.
I eat my breakfast in silence
In my home,
Right on the street where drivers drive,
By the freaky people talking to one another
As if they like each other,
In the open space of the world.
The ugly and the fat, talking without care.
I watch in the safety of my home.
Everywhere I look, people laughing, people talking.
The disgusting way people like each other,
The smell of people.
The smell that is not of your self.
When I open my door the people stopped talking,
They looked awful.
They weren't me.
I hated them all.
I quickly closed my door again.
I thought to my self, "How different
They all are, how ugly and talkative they can be".
I sit back down at my table,
Finishing my breakfast.
Talking to, and admiring, myself.

Without poetry
And writing,
How would we express these feelings?
They would be viewed as discrimination
Rather than art.
Hate
Rather than expression.
Alone is where we write
And throw our feelings on paper.
“Take it and judge”,
Poets across the world scream
Silently.
No one will hear the feelings
Of everyone in the entire world
Unless written
In art
In poetry
In songs
In hope
That we all realize,
No matter how much we choose
To think we are different,
We
Are
Not.