Having googled and failed to find the right metaphor
to express this all too familiar phase in life,
the alarmingly low levels of self-esteem
conveniently stepped up to suggest,
a fresh pineapple at the local supermarket
during the harshest of Finnish winter.
Its exotic and festive look draws attention,
everyone wants a bite but no one knows how the **** to peel it.
So they observe with great curiosity from just far enough,
to avoid touching the prickly leaves or skin.
The go to center piece of any, maybe just hipster, parties,
misplaced on top of an excruciating variety of pizzas,
spiking Sangria since the beginning of time,
and most appreciated upside down on cakes.
It draws attention and triggers discussions,
but no one knows what to do or how to feel about it,
except to watch with keen interest from a dramatized distance,
and take the canned stuff home instead.

Resting, resting in puddle
The grains relaxed
splayed across one another
The sand is peaceful
It is undesturbed
The worlds chaos passing it by
Watching the world as through a glass
its where it belongs
No pretenses - no emotion
Just stillness as the sand melts content in a puddle
as not a participant but an observer
Life passes by

Dark. Cold. Alone.
Watching for day break,
Counting the hours,
Wondering if a sun will wake

Slowly it crests,
Natures beauty on display.
Promise of warmth,
Promise of a new day

Brighter the light
Fills an empty space
Warming the chill air
Leaving new life in its place

Warmer the day gets
Warmth turns to heat
Some embrace it
Others hide from nature's feat

Fear of the pain
That comes from burning
They hide from the sun
And the warmth they're yearning

But Evening comes
Now they bask a little longer
Now longing for the mid days heat
But sun grows no more stronger

And so returns the darkness
Retreating life to home
Another night to face,
Dark. Cold. Alone

On her warm lap the cat sits
smugly without any fuss,
yet she could sense it's little secret
well concealed,  just to please her;
the expression of happiness
on it's face is a mere make -believe.
It's fluorescent eyes involuntarily dart
to the cozy corner that beacons it.
To the moonlit end of the courtyard
where her husband sits lost to the world.

She feels cheated yet again.

I'm told that this is home, where I'm
Ignored and feel locked out;
Where I'm marginalized, I don't fit
In, a new culture -
A new generation.

Yet even the me of many yesterdays
Would disapprove of me now:

The opinionated academic who still
Says all the wrong things to all
Whom he loves.

So tell me,
What is one to do

When you don't fit in

Even with yourself?