What I have lived for hitherto is not of conformity,
But for my own thoughts and beliefs without straying afar from the norm.
As a small penguin of a large world,
I must squawk my own echo of thoughts into this dull atmosphere.
I find that there are those like me,
Those who have a need to squawk their independent thoughts into these deaf-blind mutes.
My beak quivers when I realize their desperate intuitions,
Howling, bawling, desiccating their own shells,
All for the proxy notion of being known.
I reflect, then ask upon myself
“Am I like them?”
My answer is optimistic to my conscious:
“I am unlike those phonies.”
Once again I become a lone penguin,
Standing on the infinite tip of an iceberg,
Awaiting for a colony to come end my self-fallacious purge,
In which eventually, I find that I am that colony myself.
That solid-state colony I’ve been searching for was of my own being all along.