I Hate That

The smell of burnt flesh bites at my nostrils.
I'm sitting here, slouched over, sleepy, and Itchy.
I hear them talking, everything is soft and fuzzy.
Eyes out of focus, blurry.
Beating their fists at me, Faces red.
They tell me, "You're bad. You've been a bad boy!"
I don't feel like it, I'm not bad. I'm not crazy.a
I just want everyone to be quiet, leave me alone.
I want to be warm, comfy, and tingle all over.
But I can not find that place.
The small peaceful place to lay my head,
To put up my feet.
"Come in, stay awhile. Take off your Hat, your shoes.
Make yourself comfortable."
I want to feel wanted, hugged, looked at.
I want to be told I'm beautiful, I'm perfect.
Yet they never tell me those things.
It's the endless battle to get to where I want to be.
Away from everybody else, lounging
In the smoke clouds of misanthropy.
I just want my heavy boots off, my feet resting on the coffee table.
I want to feel this way forever, away from the bad things, the mean people,
The endless grey treadmills filled with suffering grey people.
Old and mean, stuffed with resentments,
and cold hard hatred for things different from themselves.
I don't like them.
They all look at me funny, laugh behind my back,
Point their bony fingers in my face.
They make me hurt, and not feel wanted.
I hate that.

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