For years,

He wore an outfit,

Made with innocence.

Then he learned to tailor.

And made his own outfit

With innocence, honesty, sincerity

And other virtues he loved.

He was proud of his work.

But then came adulthood,

And brought along the harsh reality.

His bright outfit was laughed at,

As darker cloths were in,

Of insincerity, selfishness,

And others that he despised.

“Maybe mine are the novice methods”,

Halfheartedly, he made an outfit.

It was uncomfortable and pierced his skin

Leaving him scarred, hating himself.

But he created more,

Each for a different occasion,

‘Cause that’s what everybody did

And he wanted to fit in.

One day he opened his cupboard

While searching for the perfect outfit,

He found the oldest he had made,

The brightest and the most comfortable.

“But what will the others think?”,

He thought as he reached out.

He shrugged the thought and wore it anyway,

Everyone laughed but he didn’t care.

Because now at least,

He didn’t hate himself.