The foreigner never sees himself/herself as an outsider, but as part of the whole.
The creativity doesn't flow as the raging white water of strong rivers.
No, it's a sitting stagnant creek only muddy and damp.
A true lifeless mundane low.
The eyes always watching my every move
Fill my mind with intimidation.
I suddenly have the desire to better myself.
But other times, when they call me buffoon
Behind my back, all progress wanes.
I forget my placement at times,
Thinking it's safe to be my personal self
With my personal habits.
That's how to become an outcast.
While I sit waiting for the answer,
The answer life moves past.
I feel I do nothing of importance, just bitch to my peers and coworkers;
Not fixing anything, but destroying it.
Crippling my newly formed relationships seems to be my forte
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