After school, I lace up my shoes everyday.
I look at myself in the mirror
I look at the holes in my ears,
At my Minor Threat t-shirt.

I look at the others.
Clean cut, tan and fit.
We run in the same pack like wolves,
But they keep their mouths closed and eyes forward.

I am not one of them.

I’ve managed to keep up my stamina for this long.
No one else has given me much of a reason to,
But I still kept my head up,
Or better yet, at half mast.

This is what the others love.
They adore this assembly.
And how proudly they advertise it.
I, for one, do not.

I’m a musician, a writer, a human.
I don’t fit this mold.
The mold the others have carved themselves.
This is what bothers them.

This group of eight should be uniform.
Eight brothers, all alike.
I am the adopted Asian child of this family.
We can stand together, but I am never one of them.

Whether it be skinny jeans or short shorts,
Team shirt or punk band tee,
This is still what I am.
Or so to speak.

They have made this gift a curse.
How I would love to embrace this talent,
But they have drained the joy from it.
Now, all that is left is fatigue.

Though I may be Caucasian,
I may be tall and skinny,
Though I can shine like a star for two minutes,
I will still never be a true part of this family.

Still, I run in circles as my stamina slowly runs out