content.

I am smart enough
and sweet enough
and cute enough
I am funny enough and
to an extent creative enough.
I am content
yet not
I am not
to all these
air headed
pseudo-existing
individuals
painting themselves
the colores of whatever
eccentric enough.
they rather
them air headed
breast inflated
bimbos
and I judge mercilessly.
 I come to my senses.
they're all just as angry as me
just as useless as me.
they're only more
pressured into the center of it all.
I am an outcast,
yes.
I am drowning in my preferred solitude,
yes.
but hardly
hardly do I have proof
that I am in more pain
then them all
empty extroverts
longing for attention.