You call me weird,

The label I feared all my life.

Growing up in Los Alamos, NM—the

Land of weirdos—but not my kind,

More of the engineer, physicist,

Chemist and atomic bomb specialist type.

Then, there were the weird kids that didn’t fit in

And I found my way by pushing them out. (Sorry!)

Next, I met the Olions and weird theatre people

My mom and brother seemed seduced by.

I thought them all too dramatic. Anyhow,

One thing I never wanted to be was weird.

The only thing worse was being normal.

I had to be unique, from the inside.

I wanted people to see my soul,

Still, my ego commanded:

Don’t be weird; just be yourself.

Turns out, I was my own kind of weird all along.

I take Shamanic journeys and do full moon rituals.

I’m a writer and a poet. I enjoy being alone.

I’m spiritual, definitely not religious.

I visit psychics for confirmation.

Metaphysical bookstores? I’m in!

Yep! Deep into owning that weirdo label.

Modern day’s “Can you hear me now?” and “Where’s the beef?”

Has you saying, “Don’t get weird.”

You don’t know, but I’m laughing

And owning my weirdo status–
Even if you don’t like me weird.

See, baby, I don’t get weird;

I am weird!