"Esteemed Colleague"
Esteemed Colleague
We’ve all got friends with no self esteem, low self esteem, or that boast self esteem.
“My self esteem is a wealth of things. Got it made in the shade and can’t help it seems.”
“I know much less about health well being, than I know about melted dreams.”
“No one is willing to help me see, what potential is, so I prefer life lived stealth unseen.”
But whatever the case may be, these colleagues share the common trait of esteem.
Yet my friend and confidant shares all these things within himself and awaits redeem.
Or is it that he awaits redemption, for those whose toes crushed under boastful mention?
No intention to harm those he hurt just to mask his untamed lust for adorned contention.
Forlorn description behind walls and closed doors, even behind eyes and public attention
Yet he screams, “I am king”, but this gesture from this jester serves to hide conceptions,
That he’s missed about himself, that happiness comes with first prize possessions.
So he gives way, slips away from the paparazzo he only knows as civic demon for show.
See in this middle ground he funnels a frown when sounds of errant chatter run surround.
To bite your thumb at him would pummel him and cause a fiasco when dumbing it down.
He sits by his scepter and wonderful gowns, heavy still lies his head not under the crown.
From what it would sound, is that inner torment is not dormant when leaping the bounds,
Just masked under a cast of callus, a practice he lasts with until his seclusion is found.
So he is mummified with dummy pride, but un-inclined when the mummy’s unwound.
So finally, he’s unraveled at the feeling of unfulfilling having him unwilling to continue.
What’s worse is that it’s rehearsed and he’s submersed, universe is spilling his tissue.
All over the earth that he’s traversed attempts to curse those in the lurch filling his venue.
Un-averse to what hurts, to him occurs as just mirth, unheard of and curt killing this issue
But then again, in the end, he likes to pretend that nothing really matters.
That he knows no things that host cold scenes of bold new old dreams shattered.
That he knows no ‘hold on oh so close’ to most tug of war ropes that ring ladders
That he won’t toast lonely on the coast and cusp of empty cups of brain scatter.
So he looks to the sky with wet and open eyes,
Then closes them attempting to hope them dry
My friend’s name is Id Ego Superbe…and as he goes…
So do I.
© 2008-2009 Malik Peterson. All Rights Reserved.
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