One wrong word
and the Tweets begin.
If you spell my name correctly,
at least I’ll know you’re listenin.
What’s worse,
social media doesn’t know I exist
cuz you don’t care to include me
in your supercilious game
or share that I came,
although I’ve put so much work
into what I’m wearin.
What you want is complete conformity
to your brand of popularity.
You want me to sell my soul
to look like you
and sound like you
so we’re all the same.
An initiation of swearin
on a stack of Bibles
only proves your insecurity.
Feelin invisible.
An expendable individual,
indelibly indistinguishable
from a dead man walkin.
My heart starts poundin.
My gut takes a punch.
Stress hormones produce adrenaline
that trigger my gag reflex
and the northern esophageal exodus
of the corn dog I had for lunch.
I look at the smilin faces
all around me
but they’re not smilin back at me.
Maybe it’s not meant to be.
But if it’s somethin
I’m passionate about,
look out!
I can’t see the forest
from the trees.
Sometimes
I have the attention span
of a flea.
I try focusin.
The thoughts come easy
but stickin around
to speak them into existence
is another story.
I can be intense
and push away the people
I most want to know me,
love me
and accept me
when I don’t make any sense.
You try livin with ADHD
and tell me
how I’m supposed to fit in.
Everyone’s thinkin
the same thing—
What’s this loser doing here?
No matter what color, gender or creed,
it’s always the same fear—
an insecurity that punches a hole
in the Sun
and sucks up everythin
into one
inescapable void,
where light cannot escape,
not even the breath
of a clown’s powdered soul
inside an animal balloon shape.
But would this sufferin cease?
Or would this only tease me
as I come out the other side,
takin my “fatal flaw” with me?
I know where I’m not wanted
and when my presence feels
like the unpardonable sin.
Feelin like a pariah,
treated like a false messiah.
Always laggin behind.
I got three seconds on the shot clock
so I “throw a Hail Mary” to win.
Just walkin into a room
requires all the courage
I can muster.
Exposed like a nerve.
Afraid to smile.
Do I let you in—
a place you don’t deserve
to make fun of my face
and call me “Herman Munster”?
Walkin up,
wearin Supreme,
holdin my skateboard,
takin jokes to the extreme,
trying to find my tribe,
my people group.
I’ll know when I’m home:
kind eyes find me
as collective lips pronounce,
“We-e-e a-a-are Groo-oot!”