Something Strange

Once, upon a long ago time, 

During times unexpected came a day,

That I did utter a crime,

Nothing more than did I say, 


Not of any mention of a beard,

But more along the lines of weird,

Never meaning to offend,

I thought she was a little strange,


Apalled, she brought words to defend,

As if I had paralled her to deranged, 

In such confusion was an apology,

And as such explained my mind,


It was no comment on physiology,

Or that her thoughts were unrefined,

In fact I identified as much stranger,

And never knew the word a danger, 


To mention a difference is vile,

Hearing such brings no smile,

The revelation was startling, 

Thus began reality departing: 


There is such worship of creativity,

But those things are held in captivity,

Trained to be the same in each activity,

Only wanting to see most productivity,


I dared to, continue to,

Be something strange, 

I've collected a small crew,

Which I will never exchange.


We are the seperated odd,

But do not think us flawed,

If ever we utter the word,

Just know we mean to applaud--

Let not meaning of the word be blurred.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Because, once, I seemed to have offended someone calling them a little bit strange. . .

And I suppose, they did not know I called myself far stranger.  

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If you call a poet a little bit strange, they will love you and attach to you like fried egg jelly fish to aurelia jelly fish. Beware, such words ARE dangerous. :D ~Lady A~


Hope snickering is permitted because I kept doing it while reading this poem. "...I've collected a small crew...:" Yes!  ~*(  : D )-