Walking down the street I saw

the three little pigs that live next to me.

They all rush into their houses at the sight of me.

To be different will be the death of me.

I am not small like them.

I am not pink like them.

I am not liked by them.

But my heart is just as full as theirs.

Why don't they like me?

Because they think I'll eat them?

Because they think I'll beat them?

Why would they assume such notions?

I'll I've ever been is nice but

seaming scary,

makes me too weary,

to try to fit in. 

I thought this neighborhood would be

 nicer,

but I am still just a big bad wolf

out to get,

outwit,

and be boiled in a pot of spit.

Being different was the death of me.