Thoughts of Incommodity

Hence far this morning, I have been asked four times to explain myself.
I am weary of explaining myself.
The fact that "people never hear what's really going on now."
It's all "Tell me what's so wrong now."
Is too repulsively lucid to disregard.
The rain draws out my dwellings.
Whether it be as poison from a viper,
Or fragrance from a gardenia.
It comes.

Not great numbered are those who bare the others burdens.
Small in the eyes of the mighty, for we stoop so low under our millstones.
But.
On that level we can see one another.
Those like us.
And we trade our hindrances.

But in this place, all that reside are tall and powerful and do not wish to hoist anther's dead weight.
So I refuse to explain myself,
Instead, I bestow a pseudo smile,
And a lie that everything is fine.
Fine, fine, fine.
Lie, lie, lie.
Formality is a lie.

Yes, I wear an albatross today.
But I would rather it keep my mind company,
Than give it to a stranger for beating.