Dysfunction

They say I’m “Dysfunctional”,

But I don’t know what that really means.

How could I possibly be

Anyone else, but the imperfect me?

Who wants a paragon,

A sweeping tribute to the “Norm”,

Who would never step out of line

Or blur the “Proper” bounds,

Who would shun crazy schemes

And look down their nose

At people like me?

Why can’t I be myself,

With all my flaws

Crazy ideas

Impetuous deeds

And natural Sensuality?

Why must there be a box,
A box they build around me?

What are they afraid of?

I think its envy

Nothing more.

I embody everything they wish they were,

So they try and drag me down

And snuff out my light,

But they won’t succeed without a fight.

Because I am me,

And no one else,

And that is all the truth I’ll ever need.