Pare down to the essence, but don’t remove the poetry

a heart on a sleeve
has a difficult life,
cuffs and scratches
burnt like matches;
it’s a choice
to be on the sleeve,
no guns to it’s head
(not that it has one);
there’s nothing noble
in staying on the sleeve –
masochists bemoan
it’s suffering
why stay there then?
suffering doesn’t validate it.
but happiness does,
unbridled happiness,
but it’s easy to forget
what that feels like.
so the heart on the sleeve
continues its difficult life
filled with cuffs and scratches
getting burnt like matches

fitting in
can feel painful
fitting out
is more painful.
asking yourself
are you wrong?
wondering constantly
why be different?
the cost:
seemingly endless rejection;
sacrificing joys
the squares enjoy.
a circle
feels quite joyless
with squares.
finding another circle
feels impossible.
relating to squares,
feels impossible.
fitting in, looks
less painful.
a circle, becoming
a square –
does the pain

a searing pendulum
ticks and tocks
through my mind,
my feelings follow

starts with numbness;
anger, outrage, and despair,
are elicited later;
those dreaded words
those polite words
fucking polite words that
embellish your rejection better than
odes to your achievements;
but it starts with numbness;

ticks and tocks,
from numbness to outrage
(fuck them)
outrage to despair
(fuck what now)
despair to Zen
(everything’s fucked anyway)
Zen to numbness