The Venom of the Recluse (poem)

Can you blame a man, who
Is able to ingest
His favourite drug
And still impress you?

What, exactly, are the
Repercussions
Of a being so content
And comfortable

That he, "inebriated,"
Moves amongst you—
And yet stands out
For the right reasons?

If you think he doesn't notice
Every pause and stare,
As his mind triple-double tracks,
He considers you a second species:

He, who, though rarely in sight,
When present, dictates his time and space:
The only thing he cannot control
Are the expressions on his face.

And yet, we know, projections place
Meaning on his features:
To you, perceptive; To him,
You are simple creatures.

Unfolding as sound intentions do,
Can we help but remark
On the remarkable?
Not often enough.

"Selfishness," with its
Pejorative overtones,
Is a religion:
He worships it.

Yet in his rare, but passionate, appeals
To instil the same in you,
There we find the problem:
Ambition is an illness for you.

Your body rejects it:
You pretend, pathetically,
Pathologically—
Pure pretence.

What, then, do you expect?
Focus is his strength;
So in the rejection of his aid,
You dig your social grave.

We return: little yellow pills
Dispense the pleasure.
In these, he finds friendship—
And, ironically, the happiness you crave.

He seeks it not, but finds it there—
Why? Because his life is programmed
Rightly: to write, to inspire;
To warm others by the light of his own fire.
Only then comes pleasure.
—And you? Why talk about it any longer?

Success matters.
Indeed: failure is universal.
But here's a secret not often admitted:
The temporary failure of successful people
Is more interesting than the inevitable failure
Of those who never try, and hide
Behind their own weakness. Yes:
Failure is a surprise to some—
The bulk of life, for others.