Two sisters born two years asunder, both a curiosity, a wonder,
for the elder one is two heads shorter, the younger one, two years too late.
The younger one: mere quality; but elder one: a prodigy –
which presents as one may well soon see a predicament of some regard –
as if one were to be a Frost against the great Shakespearean bard –
The older had time to accomplish more – mind you, the younger’s no push-o’er –
the younger still is leaps and bounds beyond your average human ape –
but the youth’s Bernstein, while elder’s Bach; the older Kirk, but younger Spock –
like a stone beneath a rock, the young one’s life does now unfurl.
Considered excellent by peers, yet to family the younger is but a churl –
an excess, worthless, little girl.
A daisy beneath a mighty oak, her roots, her life, is doomed to choke –
a sorry shame, but near her older sister is where her seed did land.
She’s struggled hard to come this far, but yet she’ll never touch a bar
that had been raised so high, so far before she came unto this Earth –
so valued, but near the older, the younger feels she has no worth –
and yet she has an air of mirth.
Scores of happy faces, shown to the world,
the feelings behind them never unfurled.
A young man is liked and known by most but personally he’s but a ghost –
for you see, they know him publicly, no more – he shall not let them close.
He does not wish to make a friend for he knows it shall one day end –
like all things (though we don’t intend) shall end as they did once begin.
And so he leads a lonely life with no one whom to call his kin –
and yet upon his face – a grin.
“Sun rose, Sun set – Rome rose but fell – Shakespeare’s couple is now in hell –
all good things that start in life are destined to find a bitter end.
People change and people die – I will change and I will die –
so if all things end then why? why! should I waste time to make things start?”
‘Tis the thinking of a boy who’s doomed to have a lonely heart –
and yet he thinks he’s truly smart.
The boy’s thinking is somewhat true – it is the ends that we most rue –
the breakups, deaths, and losses are loathed until the very days we die.
‘Tis true the boy shall feel no pain (within his brain) – but than again
a hole the boy can not explain shall fill his being to its core –
never to know, yet know what’s missed – his heart, miserable, for evermore –
and yet he’ll beam (benighted boar!).
Scores of happy faces, shown to the world,
the feelings behind them never unfurled.
And now we find another boy who those “inside” he does annoy –
his glasses thick, his bumpy face, his voice so shrill for sixteen years.
All kids mock him without relent – how endless is their cruel torment!
and yet no anger does he pent – though not one child befriends his soul.
“No matter,” says he, who finds friendship (though it isn’t really whole)
on the ‘net, where he’s in control.
He’s glad to have found “friends” as these (though some would call them “entities” –
“Human?” Ha! for all you see are dark letters on a colored screen.)
No voices heard, nor eyes to see – how can this form of contact be? –
and yet he types so happily, within this “room,” amid this “mob.”
Although he knows something’s amiss, not once shall you see this boy sob
(this boy whose best friend’s “Taco_Bob”).
This boy, tormented all his life, has found a way to ease his strife –
a happy ending (more or less), lonely no more, his problem solved.
And the other twelve hours a day – during which “real” boys shall call him gay
and “real” girls shall bat their eyes and say, “You poor baby,” – laugh – “now go away.” –
he’ll hide his grief (no anger pent), put on a happy face and say:
“Whatever,” – he grins “real” – “okay…”
Scores of happy faces, shown to the world,
the feelings behind them never unfurled.
Two brothers, nearly five years old, go and do as they’ve been told –
‘tis father’s birthday, the boys are loud, and they are kindly asked to leave –
so the two boys go and watch TV, and bounce, and sing so merrily –
the noise is quite all right, you see – for now the boys are in the back,
in the back, from where their parents can not hear a peep or crack –
the older leaves to grab a snack.
The older brother does return – he’s shocked and mortified to learn! –
by an act of fate and deafening crack a bookshelf fell atop his brother –
but he’s still okay! but there’s still time! but the thought runs through his infant mind:
“What do I do? Who do I find?” again and again – it’s such a crime –
the boy, confused, let the younger die – God! why can’t a child’s mind be sublime?
Why must we live this pantomime?
A decade later, filled with pain, the boy wakes from the dream – again –
recalling those lifeless eyes that first haunted his ten years ago.
Forgotten by day, but by night the guilt from his father’s birthday has not wilt –
“What a fool!” cries he – tears already spilt – “To have looked on and not have even tried!”
But now is day, and he must see the world, so he puts on his face – not at all contrived –
for chronic despair is easy to hide.
Scores of happy faces, never contrived –
for chronic despair is easy to hide.