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Poem
You're a waste of a man
The last choice for a sane person
The weirdest weirdo amidst weirdos
You just don't fit in —
Like a pole climbing strap
Trying to be forced into a blue Jeans
What an abuse of the word, Belt...

You're not the tallest
Nor the darkest
Neither are you the brightest
Yet, whenever you're amidst your peers
You're always singled out —
The only one stereotyped as
He's good with the scissors...

Your dreams are always overboard
At least, so we all think
You work tirelessly
Like the minutes hand of the London clock
Yet we see no changes in you
All you're left with each New Year's Eve
Is a new pair of scissors

How do you do that
How do you wake every morning
With your pair of scissors
And head out to make nothing
Yet, you've got the best smile
You really don't worry about a thing
How do you do that

If I were you, man
I'd have traded my scissors for a pen
But you ain't a writer
Or I'd have traded my scissors for a mic
But you ain't a rapper
Wait! 
How about trading your scissors for...

Nothing
Nothing is a relative concept
What I see and call nothing
Might be what you see and call textile
I'd trash it out in the waste bin
And you being the trash guy
You scissors it out into a T-shirt

They say cut your clothes
In accordance with your body
Well, you've got the scissors
You know more of that than I possibly can
While we're here as your peers
Holding a hundred yards of life's textile
We don't know how to make a hankie

With regard to the textiles
I've got probably the best colour
Arum's got the thickest and latest of them all
In fact, yours is the biggest
Let down of all time textiles
Yet you really don't mind
Because, you've got the scissors

Truthfully, man
I envy your attitude towards your scissors
The way you cling to it
Like it's attached to your lungs
And you can't breathe without it
You even gave her a name — Atong
Who gives a scissors a name

You're your own man
You do your own thing
You think your own thoughts
You've got your own time
Leaving us in a loop called trend
You my friend are just you
Nothing more and nothing less

You made your tool your best friend
While I made my pen and my paper
My worse enemy
Arum on the other hand
Has good brains 
But thinking is now the death of him
We hate our tools

Well, I guess perspective holds so much
But sometimes we're blinded by
The cataract from our ignorance
And wannabe syndrome
We lose our uniqueness
In trying to be standardised like everyone else
I'ma just be customised now like you are

And like I said
Your thoughts are overboard
Into the depths of the sea
Beyond what mere eyes can see
No one knows what you want
Keep being you
You might just be the world's best scissors man...
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