They called me the boy wonder and even I was not comfortable with that,
I was never certain where it came from,
I think after adolescence,
I grew out of my misery and into boredom,
Boredom,
soaked in the sheets of my illness,
but always the great reagent for inspiration,
for progress,
for the sustainability of manifest destiny,
And then I grew out of my bed,
And I was anything but what they believed me to be,
from my appearance,
when I sat behind my desk,
they said it is my vanity,
and maybe it is,
or my intellect,
or all things intangible to them,
to me even
But in the end,
I knew I would die of a broken heart,
I was dying since the day I was born,
as was everyone else,
just not like everyone else,
It was damaged,
like me,
like all of us,
but even I knew I would get the best of them,
by giving the best of me
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