Reflection

To whom it may concern,

Shame on you, for what you watch but never learn.

Shame on you for what you’ve thought you’ve earned,

shame on you for assumptions you’ve made, saying

that you deserve it all.

You really think that life is rough,

but you have yet to fall.

You’re in the thrilling tip down, but complaining about the “tough?”

Laughable.

There’s nothing that has plagued you,

nothing that threatens to put you behind.

you’re family’s stable, your parents are alive,

hell, even your grades are in line.

Just as well they should be, as you have no excuse.

You have no excuse to be askew, or strange, and yet,

you have put nothing you have been given to an actual use.

Your body’s well and fine,

your head is of wit and function,

so what

in the world

is so wrong?

A fabrication is all it is,

you selfish, ignorant, immature buffoon.

you have no ailments in your midst,

so you blew up the small things like balloons.

Yes, now they bob like a wreath around your head,

for all to see, behold the flair.

But you can’t really talk to them about it,

can you,

because it’s all just empty air.

No, your real issue is you.

No, not any “inner demons” or “bad thoughts’,

you’ve never quite bought into all that anyway.

Because you are not possessed or even bipolar,

no, you don’t have to be hazed.

You are the problem,

your personality, your very soul

you think you have a gateway to heaven, and only good because you have done no worse,

But the more you open up your squinted eyes and open ears to sound,

you see that all have given themselves, but you

have only built up bricks around.

You make a better door than a window,

and with so much in this world to see,

you get in the way of everyone else.

Perhaps if you thinned out yourself a bit you’d be fine,

but we all know you would end up

a mirror,

only reflecting what others give to you because heaven knows

you have nothing to provide.

To put it plainly,

you’re boring and selfish and vain.

you only want to converse about what relates to yourself,

your experiences, your interests, and your phony, disgustingly fictitious

“pain”.

And, lord,

the single thing you think you can do

ignoring that others have done much better,

with more patience, more passion, more drive,

you pursue without feeling or heart,

you can only hope to imitate life

because you are so unimaginative,

you can’t think to aim another part.

So you spend hours on end in front of a phone, a pad, a tablet

perfecting a useless craft, where completion is not when it’s fin,

but when you’ve simply had it.

Leaving the rest and sending it off to your lazy chagrin.

All in all, there’s so much more to spill

but you stared at this screen without so much as a flinch,

and the ink wishes to no longer supply the quill,

to such a self-aware yet inert grinch.

This isn't to draw pity or to set you up as depressed, or searching, or poor 

but to serve as a simple reflection

to display what you are

at core.

So - 

Sincerely,

And with best regards,

to the stable,

healthy,

all-able

me.

- - -

picture credits to me, as well.