If a hairy green zit falls upon someone’s face
And there’s no one to judge it, then does it exist?
The playground at recess is so commonplace.
We do not need teachers; it’s part of our race
And the urge to find scapegoats we cannot resist.
A brunt of us bear this syndrome of disgrace.
Perhaps it is something that’s not in plain sight…
A conglomerate guessing at one’s inner soul
By others. God bless them, but they’re not in touch
With their own souls. That’s why they gossip so much.
We misfits are ripe in the rigmarole
Of jumping through hoops just to prove we’re alright.
When a ‘third person singular’ greets with a smile
Do you glance at the booger escaped from his nose
Then think, “What an asshole; he’s fit to be shot!”?
Do you pull him aside and care whether or not
Some other might catch you in unworthy pose?
Hold a mirror to self. You may find it worthwhile.