The Weirdo

As he happily walks down the street Clapping his hands and shuffling his feet, Smiling at the people as they walk by While nodding is head and telling them hi. Many people laugh and call him a name So he turns around and walks away in shame, He knows that he is different and his mind is slow But why he asks himself, 'am I such a weirdo'. He meets a pretty woman so he tries to flirt She laughs at him and gives him more pain to hurt, She tells him there is something wrong with him And that he is odd and different than other men. So he gives her a flower and he sadly walks home As that is his only solitude when he is alone, He wonders why she enjoy giving him pain and woe Then he hates himself; for being such a weirdo. He dreams nightly that he is like everyone else But then when he awakes he knows he is himself, He looks in his mirror and notices what he sees A very good person that enjoys being happy. He lives that life until the day that he dies Never hurts or uses anyone or lived by lies, God looks and judges that very mans soul He then says to him, 'son you were never a weirdo'. RANDY L. McCLAVE