Sputterpub's Blog

I claimed I was an introvert, before
I gave the subject tests and further thought.
“Gregarious but loner” was the score
assumed by me, and to my children taught.
They nodded, stating they were otherwise,
but after we stopped trying to assert
each label, we concluded with surprise,
we occupy the sphere of ambivert.

The fact is, after time with friends or kin,
I crave a little selfishness, and then
in less than one full day I feel within
the pull to be with people once again.
I’ve socialized eleven days. This poem
is celebrating solitude at home.

To tell the truth, I’ve had some lonely nights,
an adolescence frustrating and long,
a prime so stressed and busy that delights
were interrupted, sacrificed to strong
responsibilities, or else occurred
but didn’t meet anticipation then.
Oh there were dismal times, but rest assured,
I ricocheted to happiness again.

It helped to want to walk and long to write.
Selecting homes where no one needs a car
meant gracious neighborhoods. And with the height
of self-esteem my goal and guiding star,
I grew from mostly glad to gladly well,
but it took years to get here, truth to tell.

I’ve met depression in my closest friends;
I know it isn’t sadness but disease.
I had to stretch to sense how gloom descends
on them, and colonizes energies,
while I appear to teem with neural wealth
(my serotonin levels must be high),
and had a patient dad who nurtured health
and counteracted Mom’s abrupt replies.

It’s not a gloat, but I appreciate
the fortune of my mental chemistry
and strong paternal luck. It wasn’t fate,
I think, but an astounding recipe
for happiness, bestowed on me and fed.
(It’s always entertaining in my head).