Fighting.
Constantly fighting.
Everywhere I turn, an ember is waiting the spark I make
to be transformed into an immense, roaring flame.

Who are you to tell me what I am?
I lie in my bed at night wondering,
wondering if it is truly worth it
to show the world my true colors.

When all that will result is ridicule,
much as it already is turning out to be.
I lie here, at night, wounded, as though a stake were punctured
through the thin flesh surrounding my heart; motionless.

The torment I induce myself to avails me not,
and it is now time to very simply stand up and continue on.
Continue on with my life as well as proving
that no one controls me, and I am my own person.

I glance across the vast pocket of land set before me
by some mysterious being many people call God and
wonder… how is it at all possible that I am any different than
the other humans who roam this earth?
Children laughing,
constant chatter of birds and other animals,
and I can look, but not touch,
because that would be against the will of God.

I suppose if it came down to it,
there are hundreds upon thousands of reasons
as to why I would be doing something wrong,
but I know my opinion is the only thing that matters.

Nothing is alright.
Nothing is fine.
About bigotry, sexism, racism, homophobia,
fascism, or any other slander of any kind.

At least,
not to me.
It doesn’t matter what you throw at me,
because your papercuts and nosebleeds?

They don’t hold a candle to my ambition.