A Stranger To Satisfaction.

Poisoned with knowledge,
He knew too much.
He could see the parts in the whole.
He could see the layers of paint in the painting,
The artist's blunders,
The colors that made the art.

On the bed,
Sweaty skin,
Underneath a dying ceiling fan,
He decided to search,
For a hole,
Out there, somewhere,
In which to bury the knowledge.


Out there,
In amidst the people now,
He knew he wasn't human enough,
Or maybe he was the only human.
He knew he was a complex chemical compound,
So were they all,
His species, i.e.
But they did not know that,
How could that be?

All that they could feel,
All that they saw and did,
A result of the compounds inside their body,
Cells and bones were all they were,
Why could they not see?


Knowledge was a weapon,
So be it, he thought.
I will make them see.
They need to know, more than anything else.
A terrorist, I will be.