Oh! why was I born with a different face? why was I not born like the rest of my race? when  I look,each one starts! when I speak, I offend; then Im silent & passive & lose every friend. Then  my verse I dishonour, my pictures despise, my person degrade & my temper chastise; and the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame; all my talents I bury, and dead is my fame. Im either too low or too highly prized; when elate I m envy'd, when meek Im despis'd
William Blake
solitude