Caught between the rebel-rejects
and the ever-progressing saints.
Pulled to lower myself and esteem
pushed to overly ambitious cultivate it.
Too adapting to be a misfit,
too doubting to be a saint.
Too skeptic to fall towards God,
too spiritual to mingle with the atheists.
Too gay to walk straight and narrow with the rest,
too straight to be irrevocably bend.
I am too secure to run after you,
too insecure to belief you’d run to me.
Always trapped between fire and ice,
while a baked Alaska is not in the dice.
My different parts will grow lonely
without them fitting into one piece.
I am not your one and only,
I am just here to lease.