My Gift, My Curse
My use of language, use of words
Often keeps me from being heard
For though they may try to pretend
Not all my words they comprehend.
The sense of logic I hold so dear
Is often the cause of my fear
For I am known to be afraid
When reasoning cannot be made.
My sharp, incisive, curious mind
Often puts me in a bind
For I am known to look too deep
Into things and so lose my sleep.
The knowledge of which I am so proud
Keeps me from joining in the crowd
For people fear, therefore resent
Those who are intelligent.
My point of view, mature, ahead
Seems to put me behind instead
For though I can, with problems great
With those of my peers I can't relate.
The insightful remarks that I make
May very well be a mistake
For people stare, glare, look away
Each time I have something to say.
My thoughts so deep and dark, yet bright
I will hold onto with all my might
For thought they leave me lonely, sad
They are the best things I have had.