A Fly and a Human


1126 James Street
United States
43° 3' 39.5568" N, 76° 7' 51.2004" W
Through the crack in the wall, a streak of light spills on the ground.
The burn of radiation tickles my hand,
And the insect under my shadow appears to be drowned
In the darkness that continues to expand
As I lower my fist to kill the awful being which couldn't understand
The aggravation it brought to my once serene soul.
There is a significant difference between this insect and some other tormenters I am forced to face.
The insect is not trying to bother other creatures nearby.
It's only trying to survive long enough for the sake of its race,
Whereas the tormenters truely want to upset the kind of people they defy.
In spite of this, I killed the fly.
It's crushed flesh and guts stick on my hand and on the floor.
A few hours pass by as I continue to stare at the ceiling,
Trying to understand the desires of an invidious man.
I get this strange feeling;
This feeling where my heart aches because of my classification of being worth less than...
Less than...less than...
The greatness of a human.
I don't understand. What does it take to be human?
Of course, that's what I am--
I am a human!
A human just like any other sir or madam.
So why can't I be accepted by others for being a lamb,
A good friend, a great person, a special individual?
...Because I'm not the same as my peers?
Because I made a few social mistakes?
Because I didn't bother to join a clique for years?
Because I may not have what it takes,
What it takes to give up my dreams, waste my life, hurt others, and ruin my body until it breaks?
Is that what it takes to have a friend?
Why do people seem so friendly on T.V.?
Why isn't there anyone like that here?
Here, in my town? A place where I want to be free...
Free to tell anyone anything about me because I want to be someone to endear.
But I feel I have to hide, and I don't want to disappear
And be known for my failures to possess the appeal of a great companion.
People remind me that my bullies are jealous of me.
Jealous? But why? Why are they jealous? They are special, too!
Everyone has something special about them! Can't they see...
See that I have great skills in a thing or two...
And that they are not alone because they can do something I can't do?
For the love of God, we live in a world of special people!
We live in this world because we are powerful!
We are humans, and we have the power to thrive!
We are amazing creatures; we are wonderful!
So many people can't see that, and that's why they deprive...
Deprive others of their pride to the point where they can't revive.
And their reason is because they're jealous?
Yes, pride has the qualities of a stimulant.
It leads to an addiction--in this case, an addiction of feeding one's own ego.
But some people have a good pride--a pride that allows them to be self-confident.
It's the pride that allows them to grow
And to choose the path they want to follow.
It's defined as the dignified sense of what is due to oneself or one's position or character.
Too many people with this pride are mistaken to be arrogant.
Too many people are jealous of them and are not aware of their own amazing qualities.
However, many of the jealous are also reluctant
To put their time into refining their own skills, talents, strengths, and abilities.
They are unwilling to make this one of their top priorities
So they can see how special they are just like everyone else.
Instead, they continue to hurt people like me,
And I don't understand.
I only want to be a good friend, but I can't handle this misery.
...I look at my hand.
The fly I killed couldn't understand
The aggravation it brought to my once serene soul.
But these people are different from this fly.
They are human; they are special.
They are capable to reach for the sky.
But they suffer a pain so awful--
A pain that we share and continue to battle.
...Maybe they need a friend, even if they don't admit it.



This poem is about someone (it could be me, but I wasn't intending it to be) who is trying to figure out why his or her bullies treat him or her the way they do. The person keeps thinking about it for hours in his bed. The poem is basically a collection of all the thoughts he or she had at that time. I hope this inspires you.

Notice that the poem rhymes in this format: ABABBC (for each stanza).

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