Wicker Man

I'm just the wicker man.

Burning in the fire, flaming pyre.

Who's the one to blame when things go awry?

Just me. Scapegoat, dry eyes, sore throat.

I can't scream, it hurts.

I know I'm not right, not right at all.

Try as I might, I'm still to blame.

Sleep too much, think too much. Why aren't you like the others?

Playing sports, acting pretty, thinking dumb.

Artificial, plastic.

It makes me sick. 

I'm different, I'm wrong.

But I don't care. Not anymore.

I won't be the wicker man just because I'm a sicker man.

Who are you to judge when a mind's not right?

Do I scare you?

Am I the boogeyman? A monster?

How can I be a monster when I'm scared of myself?

"What's wrong with you, freak?"

And they wonder why I don't want to be friends.

It ends here. The discrimnation and hatred won't stand. 

I'm fighting back, I'm taking back. Taking my back my life.

I'm not your wicker man.


This poem is about: 



How can I get in touch with you? If I may.


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