L'absurdité et Moi

I've learned many things In the eighteen years of my life, Many of them being rather disconcerting. Perhaps to you, But not so much to me. I have ceased to feel, To care. I'm so close, So close to giving up the fight. What's the point, When the world Is constantly waging a war against you. De Sade taught me That bad things Often happen to good people. Shakespeare tells me Of tragedies, And Orwell, He tells me That knowledge is dangerous. But where is God In all of this? This deity that you speak so fondly of, Where is he amongst all Of the chaos that is So mercilessly thrust upon us? I expected him To save me a long time ago, To give me refuge from the Disaster that has become my life, Yet, he never came. Another lesson, I suppose. Expectations will only lead to disappointment. At one point in time, All I had wanted was your Acceptance, All I yearned for really. I put efforts into my education, My athleticism But it was all for naught, As time after time, I was constantly Forced to be someone I was not. Until One day, I realized something. You would never accept me For the person that I am, The person I had become, Nor the person I want to be. For what you wanted Was a compassionate, beautiful, mellifluous And religious child, who would never question nor disobey you, revere you, answer to your every whim. A child that would have a career in medicine Or the sciences, as they seem to be the only Acceptable work industries in our culture. Alas, I am not that child, Nor will I ever be. Ironically, it was A result of the Knowledge I acquired In order to curry your favor. Not that you would ever know. I consider myself To be acerbic and homely, A non-believer of a high degree, One that will never lay prostrate At anyone's feet. Will always ask questions, and Will always put the individual Over the so - called "Common good." To think is to be, According to Descartes, and I'm just beginning to be, it seems. I am artistic by nature, and The world fascinates me, But I have no such desire to be Involved immensely in Medicine nor science. I am truly sorry, Not for who and what I am, But I am what seems to be The physical manifestation of Your disappointment, A failed marriage without much fidelity, A liability, an atheist, a creative. In a sense, to you I have become The Stranger. Je suis L'étrangere. When I am to return to my birthplace, I wonder, What will people think of me? I am not as they remember me, I shan't be as I once was, So jovial, devout and loving, For now I am the opposite. I daresay that They won't accept me for Who I've become, Who I want to be. "To thine own self be true," Shakespeare once said, Well here I am.