My face is a metaphor
for all which I believe,
unorthadox, in an uproar,
like something's up my sleeve.
I am a question mark,
lightning in the overcast,
my difference so stark,
but my downfall so fast.
I cling to the black ink words,
of those dusty yellow pages.
I use them as lethal swords,
in my frequent rages.
Maybe I'm bi-polar, moody;
flighty, some may say.
I can be grim, brooding,
but never the same.
I'm not a period,
a statement to ignore.
I'm not an exclamation,
an attention whore.
The question mark annoys,
and that I don't deny.
But I guess all you can do
is suck it up and sigh.
