As I sit here pen in hand,

I ask myself, 'where do I stand?'

I see the ones whom friend I call

But nothing of me do I see in them

They are not of my kindred

Of my old group of young.

They are completely different

From all else I've hung—

On to these past few months.

Why do I bother with their kind so much?

I'd rather read then be with that bunch.

But somehow that doesn't apply in this day and age

The young must be restless, or so the old say.

I still see no similarities between the rest of my peers.

The only one I do see, is my old friend from elementary.

'Tweetie' we call her, Caro, Fiji and I,

Ever since young did we.

Though schools, we were different,

At least Fiji and Caro.

But Tweetie and I were not fixed with such sorrow

To each her own and to me mine.

We had no fusses, we committed no crime.

But different I sense from all others else.

To answer my question, written in green ink:

'Where do I stand?'

Wherever, I think.

I can go anywhere, but am not accepted.

Pariah I am, an outcast of society.

Prevent it I could not, it was, is the way I am

By cutting loose skin that hangs from my hand.

I have nothing else to do—

None else to say.