Mycold, unblinking eyes
took in the solitary view.
All the usualcrowd was there.
Piano prodigy in the corner,
plodding throughsome sonata.
Ever-moody poets were draped
luxuriously onvenerable chairs
and the puke-green shag carpet,
contemplatingtheir own nothingness.
As usual.
And naturally,
TheTortured Teen Beauty Queens
no one "understands"
no one"loves"
Yadayadaboohoo poor me!
I can't beempathetic,
They have dates -
I don't.
How could I forget;
A handful of intellectuals,
tightly woven against the
ignorantoutside world,
arranged in a lopsided clump
on the far side of theroom.
Sauntering over,
my fragile confidence
teetered atthe precipice of unimportance
I wanted to talk.
To seeminterested and aloof.
I even tried to laugh at the jokes -
howeverperverted.
Just smile and be happy.
It was a lie.
I didn'tbelong anywhere.
Somehow, I had been
shoved into a dark, dustycloset.
Walking home again,
cars fly by.
I keep moving inthe right direction.
Against the biting wall of wind.
Ihalf-expected it.
"What am I doing this foranyway?"
Crimson idealism.
A potent poisonwhich
gently taxes us to death.
In a cookie-cutter world
ofPerformance Fleece and Nikes.
It is killing me.
All the prettyones
think they are done for,
whenever they feel a tinge ofheartache
in their silicon lives.
Not all the world is astage.
Someone should tell them that.
Their audience is both deafand dumb.
One conservative,
quiet,
introvert
can'tchange anything.
Besides,
solemnity brews disinterest.
Everyoneknows that.
And how soon
their tight, glowing skin ofyouth
fades to drab gray age.
If they only realized -
but theynever do.
"Rub it under your chin,
see the yellow? Likebutter.
You're a good girl."
"But how'd yaknow?"
Defeated,
I crawled back into myself.
I guessI'm just
not good at anything.
People are so foolish.
Eyesoverflow at the
most inopportune times.
Watch herfly.
Broken wings,
painfully strained,
trying to tame thesky.
Lest it destroy her.
She fights a losing battle.
Butshe doesn't know that.
She's a good girl.
The dandelions saidso.
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