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.