My individuality defines the man inside of me
who shuns thoughts of conformity, eschewing the majority.
Caliginous calamity, flirtatious with my sanity,
an open mind, I’ve come to find, promotes congeniality.
For I’m not you nor are you me, I make this claim quite happily.
We are unique, the thoughts we speak, as nothing’s gained through vanity.
I yearn to scare, to raise the hair of those who will, without a care,
read spooky tales of ghosts and wails—embracing my brachylogy.
Poor E.A Poe, as we all know, was woebegone and rife with woe.
Poems he penned assuaged his sin; he wove his words so eloquently.
Thus, I still strive to fight, survive—cool chiasmus keeps me alive.
I seek no fame, I place no blame, steeped in serene soliloquy.
I’m here for you, you see me through, when tawny twilight’s dipped in dew.
In darkest night, devoid of light, you light my paths with sage insight.
For individuality defines the heart of you and me
So, grasp my hand, we’ll take a stand, to pen groundbreaking poetry.