I want to be peculiar you see,
Some sort of oddity, or differentiation from the norm.
But I want people to look at me and see nothing of the sort,
For that is the magic of peculiarity.
I want something to be wrong with me,
Something for loved ones to worry about.
I want special tests done with no answers,
Only more questions, and doubts.
But, then again wouldn’t that be difficult?
To be an outcast of modern society
And to thought of as possibly part of a cult.
But, then again aren’t we all peculiar in our own ways.
No one is simple, yet all strange and possibly insane.