Tuesday, 5 September 2006


I was the outcast, the misfit, the weirdo.
I was the kid at school reluctantly chosen
(last) by the team.
The one called "the girl" by the other boys
because I did prefer playing with the girls.
The one who wore home-knit jumpers.

When I knew how to read,
I took refuge in books;
living other lives
in other worlds, in other times,
in the darkness of my room.
I missed living my life in the meantime.
I missed learning to live.

I am the outcast, the misfit, the weirdo.
The one who can't talk to people,
who doesn't know how to.
The one people don't talk to
(not for long anyway).
The one who doesn't appeal to the men he fancies
and who would probably not find them appealing.

I will remain the outcast, the misfit, the weirdo.


  1. Hey, Zefrog, instead of turning your wallowing in self-pity into pseudo-literary verse, I suggest you turn to Anita Brookner's fiction as she is THE absolute mistress and ultimate stylist in the genre.

    Chin up.

  2. what genre would that be, Mr (or Mrs) Anonymous? Self-pitying pseudo-literary verse?

    I think mine is quite enough, don't you think?


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