Mysteries
Tongue-tied, the sweat beads on your face as you approach the royal court:
Those upper class children who live off of silver platters and golden opportunities,
Whose disdain and judgments cannot be fully understood by
A child who raised himself to be decent.
Naivety is your only shield, but that is hardly adequate protection from
The undetectable toxin of derision.
It’s hard to make friends in a society that facilitates the persecution of introversion,
That looks down on anti-social tenancies, and alienates the introspective.
You see a girl in that golden crowd; you see her in your dreams as well.
But she is normal, and sees only with her eyes.
She does not know you are real.
Even a simple hello is beneath this pantheon,
For yours is drowned in laughter you do not understand.
It’s hard to make friends in a world where you have nothing more to offer
Than friendship.
It’s hard luck being a dreamer in a self-loathing world
That cannot dream for itself.
Your glasses broken, your nose bleeding, you go home to seek advice.
Your mother threatens abuse to your persecutors,
Your father says nothing, silently disappointed in his weak son.
You go up to your room to contemplate these mysteries,
And you pick up The Fellowship,
And lose yourself, your naivety, your confusion,
As you analyze the economic structure of Hobbits.
The window is open, letting in the spring air.
A robin is singing to her newborn children,
Who, starving, heed nothing she says,
And you unconsciously come to the conclusion
That people suck, which sticks with you
Until you are too old to go back and try again.
