Some, guilting myself, use reverse-psychology
To aim for a timely desire
Through patient methods…

The “I-don’t-want-to-be-a-bother” thought
Chains me down to be present in a social crowd,
And put on the cute quiet-boy card.
How is that any more sociable than being social?
I don’t know…even I don’t understand my ways.

I’ve also put on self-depriving airs
To deviously slurp compassion from people
When I wanted to hear that people care for me,
Even though, obviously, just being present
Should be caring enough.

Let this be a caveat lest others
Fall for the shy stunts.

Curveballs can be hit,
But dodgeballs are impossible to dodge.
Comparing dodgeball to a summer’s day?
Shakespeare, try again.
Dodgeball, you are synonymous
To a hellfire confined to a perimeter
That destroys everything it touches,
Especially at summer camps.
I walk away from dodgeball alive,
But dead in self-esteem:
Always getting hit,
And any clever maneuver of mine always seems to be a violation
Of game rules.
Dodgeball, you only fuel my aggression.
When I am the only one in play,
And see beyond the half court line
Stronger, more agile and athletic demons
Ready to pelt their confidence against my hope,
My mind defaults to “bad-sport” ideas
And just wants to get the match over with,
Lose or win.
With a POW!
Or even the slightest brush of orb to skin,
I give in
And have to wait until opposing victory cheers melt
Before grudgingly submitting to a pointless rematch
That tortures me, vaccinates me with sulky feelings.
Crying over spilled milk is negotiable,
But I cannot undo the rash from the whiff of a dodgeball
By screaming “That’s so not fair!”
Instead, I force out good sportsmanship,
My eyes wincing, my throat and mind hardening
In the struggle to keep vengeance contained.
If only the interest in dodgeball would cease
And suffocate on the taste of its own humiliation.
Boy, would I ever love to burn some dodgeball rubber.

I give you a stare showing I care,
But inside I don’t quite get what you’re saying;
I try, but does squeezing veins inside my head
Really trigger a better response and logic?
Would you prefer a sad truth?
Or a lie to make you happy?
Sure, I listen,
But eventually I hear the sounds of my thoughts
And am drowned by realistic crowd hubbub.
I want to respond with words
That favor the progress of a good conversation,
But I only have puns.
Trust me, I love to talk,
But when two voices and minds don’t catch on,
The mission for understanding becomes prolonged.
Maybe this is where
Talk-the-talk takes on a walk-the-walk cruciality.