Insane

I talk to myself constantly,
But I don't really talk about it.
People would call me insane. My best
friend is a piece of paper;
My lover,my iPaq.
People are obviously aware of that. Lord knows they think I'm insane.
I ask far too many questions.
For that, I am simply inane.
Little do my critics know,
All I'm trying to do
Is keep my demons at bay. Little do they know,
I think THEY'RE insane
For telling me how to act,
How to love,
How to dress,
How to talk, How to intake a simple breath of air.
Little do they know,
I'd like to tie them to a bed of nails
And scream and shout about their
insanity
Until my voice is no more than a whisper. Because it truly is insanity.
Beautiful boys
And handsome girls,
Dying everyday
At the hand of their own subconscious
Because they weren't good enough for you.
Too skinny.
Too fat.
Too pretty.
Fugly.
Or, God forbid, Gay.
Insanity is that they wasted
The short time they spent 'living,'
Trying to please you. You,
The insane,
The true "bitches," The true "sluts,"
The true "faggots,"
The true "sinners." The insane. What's
insane?
The fact that half of the people
Spreading this message Are too insane
For their own good.
So, I may talk to myself,
I may be antisocial,
And I may be a waste of your time.
In fact, I am. But, I refuse to hate.
I refuse to hurt. I refuse to be insane.