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Trend
A passing plaid with buckles and bits
Wearing what he likes, what he's given
As gifts and things from others
He's never really sure how to see himself
Or how others may look upon him
But he feels as if he's doing something right
He traverses local, sees his peers
All their messy haphazard selves
They always seem so out of reach
There they shuffle, arm in arm
So pretty or distorted
Somehow constantly made for each other
He imagines they can name themselves
And lay out their definition
While he struggles to catch an eye
But true is he, without his knowing
He can only be himself
Or never leave his space again
His empty-headed clean cut spare
Is all he's really know
And all he can display
So he'll get moving, buy his tune
And settle back to shadow
Wondering if he matches the way they do.
