A dream takes shape in the head of the genius.
One so grand, complex; sure to save the world this time.
“But what good is intelligence if it’s never put to good use?”
He feels his efforts prove useless, and frustration perpetuates the cycle.

Pondering all one can possibly conceive,
The tormented philosopher corners himself with his own mind.
Mauling his motivation, crippling his capabilities,
He lies frozen in his bed, the world outside turning without him.

“What is a friend?” “When will I be at peace?”
“Am I too intelligent, or not smart enough?”
Called nothing but a smart one his whole life,
But he could feel no closer to the fool.

IQ of 132, but a poor grip of numbers.
Supercomputer in his head, but its uses elementary.
Master of mental gymnastics, but each performance ends in injury.
Skill range enormous, but so terribly incompetent in each, it seems.

The top 2% of minds; among the loneliest of titles,
With so few others around to share it.
He is bound to never be fully understood by most,
And condemned to never comprehend the few who sit higher.

Sitting is inaction, and prompts others’ inquisition,
But with a mind so quick, burnout is imminent.
The mind starts its engine; quickly after, begins to redline,
Running at thousands of revolutions, yet going nowhere, running his tires raw.

One part of his mind sees no point in partaking in the things others do:
Bars, campfires, slow dancing to sweet songs; they all seem foolish.
His writing, thinking, and academia feel most preferred,
Yet another part knows they prove lonely and sterile in comparison.

A gift to see the details and complexity of reality,
Yet an inability to see and experience the simple.
He feels push and pull; rushing, urgency, yet still and sedentary.
This very poem consists just of contradiction.

He takes a seat once more,
Perched within his heavenly ivory tower.
Blessed by his privilege, cursed by his complacency.
His intelligence is most advantageous, his compulsions most bothersome.

I am a medley of everything which has been brought before me,
Presented unrestricted, unbound

I eagerly await another day of attempting to meet new people.
Students amble through our campus, up and down the hill,
Listening to music, staring at the ground, or caught up in their head,
Past a new potential friend: me.

I’ve got my friends, ones of the highest quality,
In the city, just half an hour north of me.
I don’t see them much, though, and I have no way to leave.
We can’t speak much, either; they’ve got jobs and loves and lives.

So, to maximize my social potential, I put myself to work.
I’ve mastered the art and science alike of socializing;
“Use this register”; “smile at this distance”; “speak to listen, don’t wait to talk”.
Studying it all extensively to figure out what’s best.

They’re everywhere, I hear, in the dozens, maybe hundreds.
Folks just like me: trying to overcome the awkward and build a bond.
So where are they all, and why do my paintings remain unseen?
Why do my endless chemistry attempts produce no reaction?

Well, a girl said “hello” in the stairwell as I headed for my dorm.
She smiled, seeming to be one of few to acknowledge my attempts.
Just a friendly gesture, sure, yet I think of it often, her unaware of its value.
I cross paths with many daily, yet I’ve seen no interaction like it since.

I let my confidence carry me toward new opportunities and situations I desire,
Yet, whenever I go to approach them, something nags at me.
A hand that pulls me back; a wall that stops me in my tracks.
It’s Anxiety, and he’s back, worse than ever.

Within this conundrum lies a great irony; a twist that tears at my conscience.
The closer I get to making friends, the tighter Anxiety’s grasp grips me.
“No, what if your words are taken wrong?”. “The bond won’t last.” “...But your eating…”
The reward, even if achieved, seems not to be without caveats, he claims.

He’s right; at a distance, I am safe; nobody can see me struggle to eat,
Yet this sentences me to suffer the animosity of my esophagus in solitude.
I am shielded from criticism, watchful eyes, and the projections of my mind,
Yet I am my most isolated in the most social of the places I’ve ever lived.

So, I eagerly await that new day of attempting to meet new people.
Fellow loners who walk ‘cross pathways, through buildings, and to their dorms.
Cradling their digital safety net in-hand, perhaps fearing what I fear,
Past their new potential friend.

I live a life of privilege;
It’s always been my norm.
A most comfortable existence I have lived,
From the day that I was born.

Had everything I’d ever need,
And all the things I’d want.
One might confuse it for greed,
I never asked; it’s how I was brought up.

All the food, shows, and gaming,
The world had, yet I was bored.
I had infinite satisfaction,
But from this, complacency formed.

So long I knew no else,
Then my views were changed.
Dad drove me through the city
And expanded my viewpoint’s range.

I get lost in my work.
Hungry again, I note.
The cycle restarts.
Better this time, I hope.

I find some good food,
Making sure to choose carefully,
And snag my water,
An essential, soon, you’ll see.

I avert my gaze—
I fear they’re all eyeing me—
And sit myself down
For a ritual eternity.

Many meals are Hell;
My body a warzone.
What you’ve learned to nurture so
Still hates you to the bone.

I accept this task I must master;
‘Twas not a choice I made.
It’ll stick with me for life;
‘Cause it’s one my genes gave.

The first taste is bliss,
But most bites bring pain quickly.
Size portions correctly;
So tired of feeling sickly.

Pain sears my throat,
So, I chew with vigor.
The swelling is fast;
I pray my water’s quicker.

The drink spells relief,
But every bite’s anxious,
Every swallow torment;
Each pause between captious.

Another meal unfinished; bitter defeat,
The peace remains unreachable.
I craved it so badly, and I was so close,
Now it looks repulsive; uneatable.

I check the scale once more,
So, skinny I remain;
Been mocked and critiqued
For weight, unable to gain.

I am Sisyphus ‘til sated,
The table is my hill,
Sustenance my stone,
And my mind is my will.

I get lost in my work.
Hungry again, I note.
The cycle restarts.
Better this time, I hope.

Goodbye to a part of you;
Not all, as we remain entwined.
Decided to stay friends one day,
Which cut off a choking vine.

This vine, we called it romance,
And intimate contact.
We loved parts of one another, but not enough,
And that’s okay, in fact.

I’m proud, friend, that you told me;
I thank you for your trust.
It means we can find someone who we can fully love,
And still hold each other up.

Goodbye to the part of you
That lies open just for me.
Goodbye to a future life and house;
I’ve thrown away my key.

We’ve put away our photos,
Yet treasure the memories.
What we had is over, but not gone;
We honor history, you and me.

You told me if we must ever part,
To first say goodbye.
I will, but will work to never have to,
Because you’re pretty cool, my guy.

On days like this, I am reminded of a feeling once foreign to me
A concept I’d only caught from books and from movies.
One that crushes yet contains no mass
That cripples heart and brain alike yet bears no blade.

It is the bitter, biting brutality of winter with no fire nearby to curl up to
Nipping at the heart and leaving it crisp with melancholy.
It is a plague which I seem to have regretfully caught
Despite having recently become so very aware of how to use its cure.

The girl across the hall opens her door and produces a weary, sigh with her exit
Perhaps a plea for an ear to listen or another to exist with.
She passes by my open doorway silently, contradicting herself
Our pleas for a social volley cast together into the blizzard.

I imagine she feels that same apprehension; hesitation
Or perhaps she had something to do.
The simple smile of another among the thousands here
Would be an ember of joy sufficient to set my hearth alight for days.

I crave that warmth like few things I have craved before
So close by, yet more scarce than it’s ever been.
Chatter was once my sun, and I basking endlessly below
How I yearn for summer in this raging storm.