As a young boy, I felt a certain sense of nudity,

A sense of self that could be construed, a sort of lunacy.

An expectant state of being judged rather brutally,

A sense of shame that left me void of any dignity.

I felt this way around the people I called my community,

And felt that whenever I appeared, they would leap on the opportunity,

To target my presence and shame my flaws with eager ferocity. 

Now, no longer a boy, I still feel this way with much regularity,

Wondering what could have been, if not for this disparity.

And from this state I desire to wage a zealous mutiny,

Yearning to be free from this state of prolonged captivity.

Will I ever break free from the chains of past hostility?

Will I ever overcome the damage of their spite, their scrutiny?




Vanity, Unfair?

Am I to be perceived as vain?

Since I try to avoid more pain,

Caused by your mocking and your stares,

By your giggles and your glares,

Your insults and your sneers,

And your harsh words used over the years.

Does this make me vain?

Hoping to stay clear,

Of the derision and the fear?

Things caused by you,

The same ones who should label me now,

Whose kind words are few,

And whose insults are lowbrow.

Now I perceive you as the harsh judge,

The one who holds an unnecessary grudge,

The critic looking to pounce on every flaw,

The wolf waiting at the door.

Now around you I am shy,

Does this really make me such a vain guy?