being different

How much of my life is left?
A captivated man aging,
Adulterated acts and attitudes,
Differently, have I conducted myself.
Sometimes, I’m criticised for it,
Praise, I have gotten from some.
Why can’t I just be me?
Why do I have to be like everybody?

All I ever wanted; was to be me.
My thoughts, imaginings and ideas,
Stretched, to include tomorrow. Not
A future conceived by some architects?
Divided, by their hushed feelings;
Of whining from across the room.
Bent on recognising greatness,
I have mastered respect for normalcy.

A symphony of likes and dislikes,
Impregnates my heart and soul;
Every time I see, hear, taste, touch or feel,
Any deed or work or speech
Of any male, female, child or adult.
Analysis, approval, disapproval and censorship.
Satisfaction only shells in my approach,
Consider my way, a better option it is.

It’s hard admitting this facade,
Slighted, their ways and mine as well.
Like the noiseless breeze of last night,
With no air to spiral, dying before its birth,
Perfection despicably eludes us all.
Criticism, like sugar is tastier,
And unreliable as the menstrual cycle.
It seems, being me is the best definition.

Do it this way, the chorus sang.
Who’s way is that, if it’s not yours?
I’m keeping silent, for this–
An introduction divided,
Into reasons for doing it their way or mine;
Only time will give substance to one.
Thus, I dare to be different,
Like a gambler atop Mount Hope.