Is it wrong
That I glance up at the clouds,
Feeling the wind through my hair,
And dream of a mystifying land
Where one can be accepted no matter what?
Is it wrong
That I choose to wear jeans down past my heels,
Baggy and ripped at the knees,
Unlike all the other boys that wear athletic
Shorts, so unscathed and clean?
Is it wrong
That I ask people about their troubles,
Sometimes doing all in my mortal power
To help them surpass the simple,
Even ones I have not defeated myself?
Is it wrong
That while the few friends I have
Dance around giddily and go to
The most extreme only to impress,
But I only hang back in silent content
Alistair Kirkland, let out a huge breath of smoke, as he peered down over the couch arm to see his friend (your name) flipping open a laptop screen.
“What are ye doin'?” he asked, his thick accent made her want to swoon.
“I want to ask you some questions.” she answered, hoping her friend would agree instead of finding a bypass to avoid it.
“Fine then.” he grumbled. “But be quick.”
By then, (your name) was already on the apparent 'site' and began to scroll down the page.
“Is is true that Scottish are all gingers?”
Alistair looked to the top of his head to see a little glimps