Why am I so different?
Why do I get to be the odd one out?
Why is it me who never fits it?
Why am I the way I am?
It all started from the day of my birth.
A beautiful process with a horrifying outcome.
Starchy skin with rotten insides.
But too young and blind to see gruesome reality.
"Why was I created?" I think to myself.
Just to be cut up by the painful blade of a knife,
Chewed up by the self-centered,
And simply spit out not to be loved or savory.
On a daily basis, I watch with horror.
My friends and family trying so hard to stand tall,
Just to end up defenseless against the mouths of the hungry.
As I stand just to watch them fall.
Potatoes, sweet potatoes, they all mock me.
Naturally being something I could never dream to be.
There tanned, toned skin and flavorful insides.
And my distasteful, nauseating insides and defective figure.
I always wondered what it would be like to be better.
To have a glossy figure like the perfect apple.
Or just the right shade of skin, not to be judged or criticized.
But no matter how hard I imagine, I know it could never be.
I've already tried countless ways to reach perfection.
Addicted to the promising results of plastic surgery.
Needles injected into into my disfigured body weekly.
But still no signs of change.
Soon giving up was the only option left.
My goal, my desire went forever unfinished.
But I know the answer is just in the way I am.
And it's all because I am...
A yam.
