Strange Is What I Be

I feel completely strange.
An uncomfortable geometry of self,
where the skin does not fit right
over my bones.
A constant, subtle error in assembly.

I am not recognized here. Not my brain.
Not my effort.
And they, of course, they will never accept my pain.
It is a currency they refuse to trade in.

I feel strange,
as my life is living itself-
a silent reel playing past my eyes-
and I am only waiting for the day
God pulls my plug.

I want nothing of the teary goodbyes,
no use for the remorse and regret
on their faces. Only the silent journey,
to be standing finally in front of the holy Father
and say the words: At long last.

I feel strange,
like I wasn't meant to be here in the first place.
But since I am, and have no choice but this breath,
I use my time to do something that will be remembered.
A necessary artifact carved from displacement.
God's best accidents have some the best stories after all.

I feel strange that people cannot decipher
the distance between good and wicked,
yet they know, with chilling precision,
the anatomy of manipulation.

Perhaps I have just always been strange.
If strange is what I be, then let me be strange.
It will not matter at the end of the day,
when no one truly cares what happens,
only how society says you should feel.

Strange is what I be.
I am strange.
I feel completely strange.