When I sit inside a room full of people that I am meeting for the first time I feel awkward. Surrounded by personalities that are different from my own, the fear of making an ass of myself overwhelms me and undoubtedly affects my speech. Too afraid to create conversation, I, I aimlessly trot to the nearest seat possible.
I am a beautiful creature with flaws. Once skinny with thick-ass pop bottle glasses, now chubby with eyes that often remind me that I am far from perfect. Most sell me the illusion that I am good the way that I am. I know better. Their actions around me make me feel monstrous. I was born a lover of life and how to live it, yet I am and have always been a direct descendent of rejection.
It follows me in my travels and shortens my reach, when I reach out. When I reach out, I foolishly expect to feel a hand on the other end. I quickly learn that I have invested too much time and energy with the wrong people for me. After being badly burned, I lower my head, moving like rivers during the gentle breeze of a summer's night. As my head rises upward, I speak out to the heavens asking for help.
This problem was generated by decades of experience. I walk, waiting for the opportunity to write these wrongs, I write please songs, even convert these poems in a way that may touch a spirit. As mine continue to die slowly, I am left asking questions.
Was I in desperate need of humbling? Did I ever exhibit the behavior that would suggest that I would get ahead of myself if success came my way? As I look in the mirror, I often look into my own eyes seeking answers that are brutal truths. All off the rejections, all of the times I sought acceptance, all the times I asked for time.
I am faced with a microcosm of countless failures and I cannot recognize winning or my triumphs. It is why I sit in a corner, unseen by pleasure seekers. Stumbled upon by accidental tourists who seem to have lost their way. Even they view me as just a pit stop. Yet am I asked why I refuse to be myself.
It hurts less when you wear a mask.
This was my cry for help yesterday. As few cared and fewer dared to offer encouragement, or a helping hand, I rethink where I stand. Now I quietly take my place in this chair that I promise to keep warm, still asking if I even belong. Suffering from social anxiety, I appear calm. I am reaching out again hoping not to return an empty palm. And even if I do, I cannot become alarmed, as I am certain to rise as long as I can weather the storm. Some say that it's blind faith that keeps me going on, but it is tomorrow's promise which is the reason to stand strong. I can sit and feel sorry while letting despair carry on, or become ornery, be fortified and let the tides pass on.
And with a deep breath, some deeper thought and opened eyes, I attempt to take on the world once more. My awkwardness is less and less of a factor.