They call me crazy
I call me unique
They call my style old
I call it antique
They don’t get it
They don’t understand
Why I type my feelings
They’ve driven me
To what my parents call depressed
But I'm not
At least not a lot
It’s normal
When your only friends call you paranormal
Oh but they don’t get it
Nor do they get me
Nor my laptop
Not my poems or stories
Why must the drive me
To the purest insanity
Is it because they don’t understand what I do
My therapist says they’re jealous
But of what my beauty is that of a beast
My hunger couldn’t be contained by a feast
I am told I'm beautiful and thin
But only by one friend
I need
But it is called greed
Is it so bad to want a fellow writer
To be a friend
All those who claim to write
Wish for my death
So this world may be rid of my paranormal