Bittersweet | #Wattys2016

vii. rice

We mumbled our prayers underneath our breath

My eyes, ever curious, boring into your chest,

Faintly rising so weakly, were you thrown in despair?

I could see the odd shakes of your old, wooden chair.

Yet, still you smiled warmly, pretending all was just fine,

As you offered the rice, claimed it to be of mine,

Scooped up three spoonfuls, left them aside,

Yet, little did you know, I knew exactly why.

You told me, yes, despite your charismatic grins

And your flashy shirts and your twirls and spins,

Despite the world screaming that you are an extrovert,

Inside, you knew, you were truly an introvert.

A person too shy, too scared of surroundings

To pick yourself up, avert yourself from drowning,

You hung on your talents, your odd, little hobbies

To ensure there were, of course, no horrid stories.

Not like the past, you shut off your ears

You eat the rice up quickly, blink away all the tears

Build yourself up strong in carbs and in protein,

So any images of weaknesses are tidied, unseen.

I imagine I don't see you choke on your meal,

I imagine I don't see you struggle and squeal,

Full - yes, you were, but in the name of reputation,

You wolfed it all down, strengthened up your foundation.

And as you mutter your thanks, your blessings and words.

I imagine I don't see you eye madly the birds,

To fly free, unjudged - a life envied by you,

Yet, did you know this? I envied you too.

Because, yes, life isn't pretty seventy percent of the time,

Life isn't something revolving around rhymes,

But still, you were something grand to the world,

The target of many - all those sweet, happy girls.

With your tricks and your talents, you were mighty and grand,

Still, there were people holding your hand,

You tread on this path together, not lonely,

You never took the time to observe this more closely.

For this man sitting before you feels sad and distressed,

His parents are worried - he's firmly depressed.

The rice that you ate - the one you gobbled all down

He pushed away strongly, heavy with frown.

In the name of reputation, he rations his joy,

So in the end, he truly can be more than a boy.

But as he is now? Silent, alone and forlorn,

God, who knows truly if he will make it by morn?