Boredom of the North

Should I stutter as I say this?
Be a little less as I give my best,
would that win approval—would
that impress?

I know that you can’t
comprehend half the words
and your own trump
my towering babble
down to its half-worth.

I know that you aren’t
the brightest folks, but you know
my name, and so you must know
me—what else permits you
to demand I feel ashamed?

For trying just to be.

Should I stutter as I say this?
Be a little less as I give my best,
would that win approval—would
that impress?

I know that you don’t care
and that intelligence is as attractive
as it is rare; the greatest shame
in your litany of many, is that
your explosions didn’t dare

to level you entirely.

I know that you can’t hear
any decibel above a whisper
and that relevance is all that you’ve
ever wished for, but to settle
for insignificance is your forte.

Should I stutter as I say this?
Be a little less as I give my best,
would that win approval—would
that impress?

Flamboyant, no, but incendiary?
Yes. I’m burning bridges and poisoning
rivers in the city gorging the teat
of that bitch called Second-Best;
where mediocrity’s complementary.