Quite often the things we seem to do,

Are simply done for praise,

So others they can “like” our acts,

Say “well done” for our ways,

Imagine if the things we did,

Were done because they’re right,

Then the World would be at peace,

And we’d sleep better at night.

The Shy Boy

Adept at awkwardness,

Or just awkward,

The avoidance of eye contact,

Of any contact,

The skill of closing conversations,

Or turning the attention elsewhere,

Onto others,

He craves nothing more than solitude,

The darkness of the empty theatre,

Whereas some crave the spotlight,

On them,

On the stage,

The packed house, an audience to all,

Unbeknown to others,

The heard mumblings are self encouragement,

To try, to speak, to anyone,

Opportunities presented,

Yet moments pass,

The shy boy castigates himself,

His own worst enemy,

His own,

Only friend,

He writes words with such fluency,

Adept at adaptations of situations,

Creating his own world,

For just him,

For just him, alone,

The Shy Boy.