I went on a walk with Aristotle,
And we pondered, as we wandered.
I quizzed him about the necessity of friendship,
Or if they were just an excuse to dawdle.
He looked at me and stroked his chin,
And questioned why I questioned him,
I responded with a simple plea,
“I’m in desperate need of guidance.
I had a group,
That flew the coop,
While I could do,
Nothing but watch.
The scales were removed,
I learned soon after,
That letting down your guard spells doom,
And leaves you in tatters.”
He listened to my story,
I wiped my damp eyes,
He patted my shoulder,
To my surprise.
He smiled softly,
Took my hand and spoke gently.
“You’ve been hurt and now you’re scared,
And scarred; you think you’re beyond repair,
And the world might tell you so.
What you witnessed wasn’t friendship,
Not in the purest sense,
But more like a fleeting sparrow,
Leaping from nest to nest.
Some feel deeply, much as yourself,
So you assume, naturally, that’s the same as everyone else,
But some are superficial and see you as a means to an end,
Those artificial peons aren’t true friends.
True philia isn’t fragile, and it rarely decays,
To the slightest change in breeze,
Or a joke uttered in the wrong way,
But it stands firm, like this oak,
Though occasionally, it may sway.”
We sat down under the tree,
An apple fell into my lap.
I took a bite, heard the crunch,
The sweetness reminding me of what I lost.
Like honeysuckle, a short reprieve,
From the pain I held within.
Was it my lack of connection,
That sealed the fate for my friends?
As I was lost deep in thought,
Aristotle retrieved a bottle,
Of wine for him, and juice for me,
He smiled again, continuing.
“True friendship is rare, like fine wine,
It’s crafted and molded by time.
Sometimes you drink, and the taste is sour,
Grapes harvested past their ripe hour.
Don’t distress about the mess,
The fish are plentiful in the ocean.
However, without the willingness to cast,
How can one hope to be loved?
You say a lowered guard spells doom,
You may think that rings true,
But a lonely monarch on his throne,
Has no one to count on but his own,
And will inevitably lose.
Friendship, like love, is filled with pain,
It’s a gambit covered with messy blame.
For those who don’t dare to play,
Are destined to be destitute of fame,
And overcompensated by shame.”
“How does one forget the wounds they’ve been dealt?”
I asked, hoping for an answer I knew didn’t exist.
“You cannot; that pain will be a constant, always felt.”
He glanced over, noticing my resistance.
“Don’t be afraid to feel, if feeling is who you are,
But don’t let the fleeting tear you apart.”
I shed a tear, which turned to two,
As double hurricanes clouded my view.
Aristotle dropped his bottle,
And embraced me, understanding me,
More than my friends ever had.
A simple conversation,
A few words spoken,
More meaningful than years of emotional investment.
He stood and smiled once more,
Leaving me with this final encore.
“Those who think are often tormented by,
What fears and pains they hide on the inside.
Don’t forget to spread your wings and fly,
With true feathered friends, not crows who lie.”
Aristotle disappeared, leaving me with many thoughts.
I stood up and brushed my weary self off.
I closed the book I had been reading,
Dried my eyes from their weeping,
Smiled, and finished the apple I had been eating.
For I could always read the book from beginning to end,
If I wished to walk with Aristotle again.
My friend group exploded around this time last year, and I still don't think I've recovered. My friend count went from like five, to one or two solid ones. Due to this, I've re-evaluated what a friend is to me, or tried to, and I haven't been able to come up with a solid answer, hence this poem. As sad and pitiful as it may be, such is life.
