Trapped in a room of twenty-nine,
when I arrive I just want to leave.
They think I'm rude or weird,
they don't know I need to breathe.
-
Keep to yourself and read alone,
twiddling fingers, sweaty hands.
They think I have a problem,
they just don't understand.
-
Questions of how I don't talk,
they make me want to flee.
They expect a solid answer,
they don't know it hurts me.
-
Stomach churns at new faces,
I get stamped with a "shy".
They think they actually know me,
they have no idea why.
-
No one wants to approach me,
I have a face of stone.
They say they're giving me space,
they think "lonely" is "alone".
-
Few are kind to talk to me,
but they make me feel so small.
They say it's just a joke or a game,
they don't know me at all.
-
Hand up, group project and spotlight,
I say I'll do it but I don't.
They really think this will help me,
they have no clue that it won't.
-
And so I repeat this cycle,
every week in these five days.
They are the ones who made this system,
they are why I feel this way.
YOU ARE READING
The Quiet Club
PoetryThe extrovert ideal - The omnipresent belief that the ideal self is gregarious, alpha and comfortable in the spotlight. But how can you be those things if you're not wired to do so? Take a look through the eyes of those deemed "quiet" or "shy" as th...
