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I am different.
From most others
I am different
Even from my tribe.
Why this is
I don't know,
but I know that it is.
Solitude leaves me with myself,
The only one who understands myself.
In solitude I have planted my soul,
and like a mighty tree my soul has sprung,
In solitude my soul grows
Weeping and consumed with laughter.
Happy and mad, angry and glad.
My soul and solitude are one.
A perfect kind of broken
Is the state of my being.
I am a man who loves, but by himself.
A man who grows, but not in the same way.
This man grows forward and around all others.
Unlike a branch, who grows only for more of himself to grow.
This man is strong, and weaker than all there is.
And in solitude this man was born
Outside the womb.
On playful grounds of loneliness.
This man grew by himself.
Nursed by sorrow and joy.
This man became a puzzle,
and one by one a piece went missing.
This is the life of solitude and a man.
Broken and fixed, loved and loathed.
Guilty and Proud.
