by Erika McLitus
I’ve always found my center by wobbling.
I have to skim the guardrails to stay in line.
It’s amusing that they fail to recognize that
Passion isn’t something you can confine.
I’ll never fit in with the nice ones.
It’s the blandness that I can’t survive.
I can’t live like they do, all gray-colored boredom,
And still call myself alive.
I know that my way isn’t the best one.
I strike matches just to watch them burn.
Still I can’t help but feel as I watch them all kneel
That they can’t know what it’s like to yearn.
