Shame courses through me, unbidden,
Unwanted, unneeded,
Undeserved even
Humiliation, caused only
By the contempt I see
In the eyes
Of those standing around me, encircling
The rarity, the
Unusual, intriguing, peculiar species
Of honesty
That they seem to
See in me
And yet any shame I feel, should be
Caused by my own actions and own
Humility, my own conscience –
Not a crowd’s, nor another’s.
Humiliated
By the many
Understood by the very, very few –
Even then, understood only partly -
I have disguised myself to fit my
World, to fit my
Civilization, which I was born into and did not choose.
What would I have chosen?
A utopian society with no excitement, no
Piquancy, no
Rarity, in which
Humanity dies, not of old age, but
Of death as a matter
Previously agreed upon by others,
The world of a fictional
Novel
With the power to make me shudder?
Or would I have chosen
A society accepting of everything and everyone,
Their
Flaws and their achievements, their crimes
A wild, too-vibrant world of
Unexpected harshness?
No, I see now that
There can be no
Perfection in a world,
With inhabitants so imperfect –
Such as myself –
That they
Cannot even imagine a realm of
Pure faultlessness.
And so I go on and
Make up disguises,
Blend in
Become more muted, neutralized, become
Invisible to all around me.
I disguise myself
And hope for the best
Hope for my
Dreams to come true,
But how can they?
When they are conflicted, for
I am corrupted enough to think of
Wealth, of power
And idealistic enough to think of
Isolation, enamored enough of
Art and philosophy, to wish to become
Great at them,
When that very wish goes against what
I believe to be their –
And my –
Principles.
I disguise myself to myself
And to others,
To put my conflicts at rest;
And in
My rare moments
Of quiet and clarity,
I am tortured
By that which I cannot
Seem to change.