Weaklings Market Days

When you look at the people around you what do you see? The whispers are loud, the stares supposedly discrete. What haven’t they called you? What haven’t they said about you? Does it really matter?

You prance; knowing you’re better than they are. That’s because you are. Have you ever spread butter with a Chef’s knife? They certainly have. Have you choked on your own words because you realize you’re speaking about yourself? Have you ever barked at another being calling it a dog when really you just want them to go on four like you? Do you think they even care?

When they speak amongst themselves, in crowds, looking over at you in disdain, what do you feel? The mongers deride you, the hawkers wander; selling the same cock and bull, obviously others tasting better than the other, but all having your ear tag.

Bad? You’re better than that. I don’t know why you bother with them, but I guess people like us need a muse. Entertaining how their perception of you is their reflection.Make them tie your shoe strings. Desperately they will run to you, to gain what none does. then off they go to the market again. The lowest price gets the most buyers, that why they are not in the upscale scene.

They expect you to crash and burn by their words but you still prance. Little do they know that you thrive on their dismissal; because then you build yourself. You add fire to the flame, give them more to conduct their business with; too air headed to realize they are.

You walk away, with you head held high. “Pompous little bitch” they say.  Words of a peasant don’t belong at the high table…

 

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