In my peace,
I place rancours to displace
rejection,
tucked away in my shell,
but my shell has holes,
lesions that become
infected with other's
generosity.
Anything I feel is
like an arrow,
whether it be from Cupid
or Envy.
If I wasn't moody
transferring synaptic chemicals,
I'd engineer jet propulsion systems
or frame a killer.
Admonished by my peers,
as if what I know
is inapplicable,
even offensive,
as if I bled into
them.
I'd confess that
I'm bitter, but
I already told you that.
