I am not distinguished—I am despicable.

I am not distinguished—I am despicable,
for I think the thoughts of tortured men.

I am not creative—I am burdened
by a voice, dead without me
but not me, in itself.

I am not at peace with the world—
my mind runs like a mad river
churning up, picking up,
later discarding with neither trial nor ceremony.

I am not happy in my thoughts—
they are poisoned by the very perception
of judgement and expectation.

I am not well adjusted in society—
your language is foreign to me
your rules an anathema
your protocol a mystery
with no last chapter to flip to
to see how it ends.

I am not wise in any regard—
too keenly aware of that knowledge which eludes me.

Nor am I stable, for the hand of humanity
one day pushes me away in contempt
the next day pulls me near,
shoulds and musts spitting against my ear

and falling away like water off a stone.

Yet can it be
that knowing I am not
makes me so?

For what is more distinguished
than knowing the curse of one's thoughts?
What peace exists
beyond the understanding that comes
with the awareness of the racing mind?
And what wisdom unknown
can defy the beauty
of that already won?