Dear Solid Organism,
Your soul is showered with pain.
It’s garden and store with ancient words that are ruthless and demeaning.
As you walk the streets,
Your solid organism transmutes into a liquid:
“Do they know?”
Your voice searches for something solid:
Your gait has to be solid:
Sturn and upright.
When You tell them the truth,
their faces fade into a gas:
Cloudy, Ominous, and Dark
Are we accepted? Or is it a myth?