Graduation

I’m an addictive substance,
not a creator of bone blueprints.
Nor do I form the metaphorical-lyrical flow,
with which you gussy up meaning.
 
Simply do I add,
stone pebbles to pitchers;
raising droplets of water
to parched birds pale beaks.
 
I’m not the homecoming queen,
adorned and displayed
for the court's pride and pleasure,
after four years appraisal.
 
Strongly they cheer,
with feverous love.
So now there she drifts,
atop zephyrs of privilege.
 
I’m not the improved disillusioned;
his pride held within
false skin drenched in meekness
is every bit as conforming
as the world he now loathes.
 
Some dogs, when confined to a corner,
will snap their sharp teeth
and crack thunderous growls;
 
some dogs are put down.
 
My teacher taught well.
I learned to take what was dealt;
the fallible nothing
they convinced me I was,
became the nutshell identity
I grew to protect.
 
My ironic saving grace
is my eternal self-doubt.
I am not completely pretentious,
sullen or angry, nor bitter or joyous.
I’m an abused little boy
inside a cliché vindication;
presented as a 19-year-old asshole.