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Poem

I don’t answer
intensely personal questions people ask
for these shreds to pieces what is truly me
the pieces are of no use to them though.
The effort seems to be out of veiled envy, 
incisive curiosity or even to subtly insult.
I am forced to uncover and introspect
ask myself why I am under their prying lens.
My life’s energy dissipates reorganizing
the dislodged pieces in place once again.

I don’t react
when caustic comments people make
on the manner I behave odd to them
or on the way I do or don’t do things
for them on asking or even for myself
for these are innate traits I am born with
discarding or changing which for their sake
or walk on their footsteps they set would be
to dispense with a vital part of my psyche
and to exist as a void entity of no identity. 

I don’t demonstrate
the feeling of appreciation articulately enough
if people do something good to me sometimes
for that action appears an expression overdone
deceptively laden with fake display of gratitude
which in essence hides the tacit expectation
that the good done is what is deserved and due.
When for this trait people criticize my sensitivity
a part of my  mind inherently obliged though
is tortured to premature and painful demise
I can’t endure for I don’t deserve the treatment 
and aims to maim a part of my bruised persona
I can’t rejuvenate for it does no longer respond.

People tell me, I have gone or going mad.
I tell them, yes, if self-preservation is madness.
That’s why I am alive still
as a mad man at my will.
I tell myself, so let it be.

August 1, 2017.

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