Average

There’s something I want to confess,

Something I need to get off of my chest,

It’s, that all I ever wanted was to feel as good as the rest,

Not to feel greater, or worthier or even the best,

But just to feel on par with them, would make me feel blessed.

And to feel this way seems like it’s become my life’s quest,

To the point that I may well have become obsessed,

In trying to feel like I’m on par with the rest.

This seems to have unwittingly made life a contest,

And since it’s a competition I won’t win, I’ve become depressed,

But I’m bound by the fear of rejection to always invest,

In the pursuit of proving that I’m equal, and not less.

In this regard I’ve sacrificed much, but to no success.

In this pursuit I’ve pushed myself much, but made little progress.

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Sticks and Stones

Sticks and stones,

May break my bones,

But harsh words – will break my Soul.

Smitten

Yes, I’ll admit I was smitten,

And that by the love bug I was bitten,

But tales of romance are never written,

For us ugly ogres – who don’t fit in.

I’m Tired

I’m sick and tired,

Of feeling sick and tired.

Is all this merely a result of how my brain is wired?

Or is this malaise somehow acquired,

Or perhaps a result of some plot, conspired?

I yearn for relief from this state, undesired.

For how much longer must I feel like an entity, expired?

Blot

Might she be able to love me,

If I obtain perfection?

For surely I am unworthy,

To even the most lenient of perception.

Why would anyone settle for less?

Why would anyone settle for the mess,

That I am?

Can I ever be admired,

For where I am?

Can I ever be loved,

For what I am?

For even my yearning,

Doesn’t make up,

For what I’m not.

And it cannot replace,

What I haven’t got.

And it doesn’t avail,

The blot – that is me.

 

 

The pros and cons of being a loner

Being a loner can mean freedom and imprisonment,

That’s because it has its good points and bad points.

Being a loner means there’s no one there to judge you,

But there’s also no one there to comfort you.

There’s no one there to kick you while you’re down,

Buy there’s also no one there to pick you up from the ground.

There’s no one there to laugh at you,

But also no one there to laugh with.

There’s no one there to make you cry,

But there’s also no shoulder to cry on.

There’s no one around to condemn you,

But no one around to advise you.

There’s no one around to take advantage of you,

But no one around to be devoted to.

There ain’t no one to cause you annoyance,

But there ain’t no one to grant you solace.

There ain’t no one to pick at your flaws,

But there ain’t no one to sing your praises.

There’s nobody there to cause you to frown,

But there’s nobody there to turn a frown upside down.

There’s certainly no one about to harm you,

But certainly no one about to protect you.

There’s isn’t anyone to question you,

But there isn’t anyone to seek answers from.

Ultimately, being alone means there’s no one to fear,

But ultimately, it also means there’s no one to love.

 

 

Scrutiny

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?