The Atypical Man

By William Thomas Leonard

The atypical man,

Has an aberrant plan,

Collects many a can,

From them builds a fan;

His familial clan,

What they call hoarding they pan,

Point fingers decrying the atypical man.

The atypical fellow,

Who wants to keep mellow,

Draws bow across cello,

A grand tune does bellow;

Bystanders turn yellow,

Flip like Othello,

Snatch the bow from the grasp of the atypical fellow.

The atypical lad,

Nerves and grip ironclad,

Puts a pencil to pad,

Crosshatches a tad;

The embittered act mad,

More than they ever had,

Scratched away is the work of the atypical lad.

Views change,

You’ll find,

In range,

We’re all blind,

Your brat,

My boss,

Your matte,

My gloss;


It’s there,



One thing is true,

I’m only atypical,

When normal is you.

Photo by David Sinclair on Unsplash

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