Everyone says I’m crazy.
They say I should be worried about school,
or friends.
(Not that I’m not…)

Everyone says I’m weird;
how I can't stand shoes,
or being locked up inside for too long.
(Honestly I don’t see how they can.)

Everyone says I’m mad;
every time I do something out of style - 
like dance in the halls,
or make up a new word.

Everyone says I’m insane;
how I stand there, in the breeze,
and just listen –
to the crickets that have no worry,
to the squirrels that have no shoes,
to the leaves that are free to dance and whisper the most soothing things.

But they don’t see the beauty;
of the mud between bare toes,
or the freedom of no worry.

They don’t watch;
the way I laugh when I dance down the hall,
or when the wind, soft and caressing,
hits my longing face like a shock from an outlet,
and I smile delicately,
because I’m I know I’m the only one who understands the leaves,
and the squirrels,
and the crickets.

Why don’t they just let loose?
Not care for a moment?
Watch?
Listen?
Pay attention to anything?
Maybe then they’ll see the beauty I do. 
Maybe then they won’t call me crazy.

BUT,
if being crazy means taking a break from school and friends –
just for a little while –
and feeling the real Earth on your feet
and the wind on your face like the freshness of peppermint,
and dancing,
and singing,
and making things up…
well, then;

I want to be crazy.