We are all outcasts.
Somewhere in our history, we aspired
to create a world that could be
everything to everyone but became
nothing to no one.
We are freaks to an ideal,
beasts to peace and happiness,
beggars on the golden avenues
We are warped cogs in a flawless
machine–if only we could be
perfect too . . .
I don’t want that. My only desire:
To hold you, wrap my arms around
to fall asleep knowing it doesn’t matter
to you that I am not a better person
than I am.