I am self contained
Being myself is a disease
I choose solitude over interaction
It’s unnatural, conversation
I go over possible dialogue on my mind
I know all the outcomes, so continuing is
pointless.
I have always been an outcast
always different
A turbulent blow of preemptive, and ongoing, hate from those who sense it.
Then I’m diagnosed with a problem
an excuse
unexcusable
In order to be fixed, I’m broken down some more
Rush me from therapist to therapist
I am still the same.
They hold me back, and call it “help”
So my mind is different
My brain mapped different from most
Yet no one knows how the brain really works
If no one is normal and consistent
Why diagnose me as odd?
No virus caused this,
no bacteria
no infection
It’s the way I am
I am not diseased.
By Trina Attack Attack Attack!
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