Misdiagnosed Genius

You call me mad?
You call me mad?
You call me mad!
What is madness?
"You're mad. You can't think."
Au contraire. I do, in fact, think.
Cogito, ergo sum.
So what are you saying?
I don't think, therefore I must not exist?

I'm different from all you "normal" types, you know.
Like Mr Mathers:
I'm friends with the monster that's under my bed
Get along with the voices inside of my head...

But so what if you misdiagnose me
Calling me troubled, insane, mad, psychopathic?
I have advantages you don't.
I know things.
My friends the monsters and voices answer my questions.
So...
I know why the caged bird sings.
I know what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.
While you rack your poor underdeveloped brains for answers--
miserable creatures--
I look on and smile sympathetically.
For I am omniscient.
I'm not God
But I like to think I come pretty damn close.

You are all
subhuman.
You fear what you don't understand
so I terrify you
You attempt to rationalize
and explain the inexplicable
so I'm insane.

I'm different from you
because I choose to flaunt my genius in unconventional ways.
You brand me as "subhuman", beneath you. 
You should have your egos cut down to size.
I am of such that
you don't know what to make of me
what to do with me.
Ha!
Perfection-- true perfection-- would charbroil your little pea brains at first encounter!

But I lie... I am insane.
The way William Shakespeare
and Edgar Allan Poe and Vincent van Gogh
and Einstein and Stephen Hawking might be.
"But they weren't insane! They're geniuses!"
and when I personalize this statement
"You're deluded. You're different."
HOW?
Is it because they're (mostly) dead?
Or is it that, as the Bard penned,
Some are born great
Some achieve greatness
and some have greatness thrust upon 'em
And I, to your feeble minds, am none of the above?

I don't pen preternaturally timeless words
Or look into the heavens and recreate with brush and canvas or marble what I see
Or reveal secrets of the universe--
you wouldn't appreciate them anyway--
But the capability so to do is hidden away in the labyrinth of my mind.
It's the Minotaur, deep within my mind maze
and I am Ariadne.
I alone have the infallible means of navigation.
There is none bold enough
to take on the role of Theseus and explore.
Those who would dare...
Let us picture
ships sailing home
under the guidance of black cloth
and fathers jumping off palace roofs in despair.

You, in the starkest contrast...
Subhuman.
Lesser beings.
Imperfect and weak.
The very sight of you awakens my choler.
Or, as you idiots like to say,
You piss me off, man.

Because you are steeped in mediocrity!
Being o'er shoes in it, you decide that
no, that's not enough
and boldly plunge in the deep.
You flaunt your shortcomings because
"Nobody's perfect."

-Hello. I am Nobody
(As Odysseus with Polyphemus)
I perfectly epitomize perfection.
But, I digress.

You puny fools don't truly believe in upward mobility.
You preach yourselves dumb about it
The "American Dream"--
or whatever nationality it is--
but that's all you do: preach.
Never realizing that words-- yours, anyway-- are but empty air.
If your words were bricks, you could build a stairway to heaven.

You don't realize that we're men not yet gods.
But there's potential for deification.
It's funny how, of almost 8 billion minds on this earth
only one minds is elevated and enlightened enough to appreciate this
...mine.

Yes, I'm passionately misanthropic
But we "insane" ones have that reputation.
I despise you all.
So I go gently amidst your noise
experiencing what peace  there may be in silence
inhaling your foul exhalations, hastening on my exit to realms yet unknown.
Well.
Unknown by you blissfully ignorant dimwits anyway.
Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Maybe I need a straitjacket
Face facts
I am nuts for real but I'm ok with that
It's nothing...

I know I can never change what passes for your minds.
You are insufferably stubborn.

Neanderthals!