We are the facilitators of our own creation

You want me to share your umbrella?
Fuck you, I prefer the storm.
Yes it’s cold, loud and unadulterated but it’s real.
I’d rather die confronting the real then survive the facade.
I stand to the left of your umbrella not only because I choose to have nothing to do with you but because your umbrella is ugly.
It does not compliment my composition.
It does not tell my story .
It’s arch is too perfect.
Not even my own umbrella can tell my story.
Not one word can verbalise my pain.
I produce sound and although these sounds are of my own creation, the rhythm does not resonate.
No picture can depict my struggle.
No laugh can display my insecurity.
The material world is too constricted for my liking.
All I have is my imagination and it’s yelling:
Oh how I hate people for conforming
A land built for giants yet it only has midgets swarming
A land for greatness yet, exponentially, failures spawning
So we turn to religion
A foreign set of rules so absurd we create faith to justify it.
A concept so unreal, only the unreal can clarify it.