If I told you I’m extraordinary I bet you’d laugh.
You’d say ‘every girl says that and every 20 year does too.
There’s nothing special about you, you fit right in somewhere.’
But if I wore an 8th colour and crushed all my baskets into an egg,
Would you go against everything you know?
I promise I won’t do that; I can see your boner fade away already.
I’ll wear formal clothes, even stick to deadlines,
Fiine, I’ll even say I hate broccoli and can’t fly.
But if you ever ask me to be a bore, perform like a machine or stay quiet,
I may disappoint, implode or explode, or I may just offer you a smoke.
I get really gassy when I’m alone,
Letting out things I can’t when people are around.
Like farts of self consciousness that I think float fine,
Or burps of racism that I see as a tasty blackened white.
Only when I’m alone though.
The rest of the time I’m far too busy
Closing my nose to smells everyone endures.
Originally published on one of my old blogs.
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