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.