To Be Born Like This Poem by Daniel Peter Jones

To be born like this; Sexually apprehensive
Feelings of shame at others embarrassment
Their tight improper jeans moulded
To pipes of skinny flesh; lumps
Of future generations, squeezed into
Shapes of freshly baked bread,
But I know it's stale, not baked fresh
Like an old sponge, rigid, dry, malleable
Forgotten of its use, a lonely cube waiting
To be moistened again, a lonely man
Covered but on show, does he know?
I know.
To be born like this; Anxious.
They look at me
My arms flail and hang over my torso
Psychologists would ponder,
I'd react, by holding my hands in front
My body backing off, if my arms were long enough
But they are not, I remain still, silent, because
She bit me today, ravished my mind
Like a feline, delicate; like a broad secret
Cunning as a feather draping through air
Second guessing impossible ripples upon
Its vane, anxiety hits again;
To be born like this; Paranoid
There's somebody watching me, as I'm
Watching you, critical, obsessive;
Bouncing through quilts of stereotyped
Dopamine, no social empathy only
Uncontrollable envy, green as
Continental shaped mold on week old Oranges, but
They are still looking, why are they looking?

Why am I writing? Why are you reading?