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Pervasive personal questions people ask,
shredding to shards what truly is me.
The pieces are of no use to them though,
the effort seems at times 
to stem from veiled spite,
incisive curiosity or even subtle affront.
I forcefully flinch to introspect,
ask myself why I’m under their prying lens,
and don’t answer.

Caustic comments people often make
on the manner I behave, 
that seems strange to them,
or on the way I do or don’t do things,
that seldom matches theirs.
I don’t try to explain,
these are innate traits I am born with,
discarding or changing which for their sake,
or walk on their footsteps would be
to dispense with a vital part of my persona,
to exist as a facsimile entity of no individuality.
So, I don’t react.

If at times some people are good to me,
I can’t express articulately enough  
the feeling of hearty appreciation, 
for that action may appear a manifestation overdone,
deceptively laden with pretentious display of gratitude,
which in essence screens the implicit expectation
that the good done is what is deserved and due.
When this trait is criticized as intended insensitivity,
a part of me, inherently obliged though,
is tortured to plaintive and painful despondency.
I can’t endure the undeserving denigration,
for it aims to maim part of my bruised psyche,
I can’t rejuvenate, for it does no longer respond
for me to demonstrate.

People brand me quirky.
Surely, I’m so
with my strong sense of self-identity.
Travelling on the divergent path I paved, 
I tell nonconformist me, reassured, 
Shikata Ga Nai.

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