Yes, perhaps this is accurate,
Just like women with appearances some deem
Unflatt’ring,
The label rendering man abomination is:
Average.
Not bathing in the
Vain Ocean of
Wealth and
Splendor, nor
Standing on freeway exists,
Cursing capitalism, just ...
Average.
Not the “A” student answering every question,
Hand a fixture of the air,
Or the guy with failing grades,
Sliding tacks on teacher’s chair,
But the guy who’s ... there.
Average.
Not the guy who left the other runners in the dust,
Blazing fast past “Finish,”
Nor the guy who dragged himself across and
Shouldn’t have been in it,
But the guy sporting the participant ribbon ...
Average.
Not the guy splitting atoms whilst designing graphics,
Nor the guy who can barely even
Hold his own bladder,
But the one between the two,
He doesn’t seem to matter.
For in this bell curve,
They say we’re all inside.
Most of us are in the center,
But we’d rather be on the sides.
For in the land of Opulence,
The shell of normalcy is shed,
And finally! The average are not average,
Bearing greatness crowns instead.
But we all know ascension,
Is for most, a fleeting hope,
Most will remain in Averageness,
Despite what we are told.
Even in the underbelly,
Sympathy prevails,
The wheels truly get the grease,
Long after they have failed,
Strangely, in this underclass,
Men somehow get attention,
Oddly, when all is lost,
Some matrons find contentment
So one must fail or succeed
Past everyone’s predictions,
If he is to escape
The realm of No Attention.
YOU ARE READING
Romantically Incorrect
PoetryBorn, raised, and currently living in Detroit, Michigan, Morgan Coby is a combination of many different things around him: the gritty realities of the city where he dwells, and the wondrous idealism from the fictional worlds of stories, cartoons, an...
