Surrounded by several,
who like me; few,
who love me; I live
for the several; hell, I make it,
for the few; why do we hurt people,
who love us the most; enough they are not,
for us vain men; searching we go,
for validation elsewhere; standing with me,
through thick and thin; standing with me,
bearing the pain I inflict; someday I will
understand the value of the few; only hope can I, that they are with me until then.
My wife is pained by the fact that everything that people say, every event at work, my constant worry of what my colleagues think of me, what the world thinks of me, everything, except what my closest family thinks of me, affects me. I’m the hero, for my wife and kids. According to them I’m a huge success, a brilliant worker, an outstanding dad, and my personal life is as good as anyone could hope for. If only I created an image of myself from these, from what my closest family, the people who I love, think of me. My every high and low is triggered by my interaction with the wide world of people who don’t matter. The poem is a reflection of this.
