A rant from the perspective of a quiet misanthrope.

I don't know if this is a poem. It just looked better this way.

I'm not nice. 


People tend to think I am, but really,

I'm not. 

If they could hear my thoughts, they would know

just how mean,

how cruel,

how irritable I am. 

If they could feel the heat

of my annoyance at them,

at humanity in general,

if they could sense the words that fester

on the tip of my tongue,

just waiting to leap off,

they would not think I was kind.

I'm not nice, I just talk so rarely that my mean streak seldom shows.


Sometimes, when someone angers me,

I feel a peculiar tingling in my fingertips,

the desire to injure, to punish. 

I feel a strange tugging on my facial muscles,

as my feral instincts will me to snarl,

and my teeth grow cold

with the urge to bite someone.


But I don't. 

Not because I'm nice,

but because I'm civilized. 

I smile the best I can, hoping

the coldness won't show in my eyes,

hoping they won't notice me twitching. 

I say, I'm fine, how are you? 

I do what they want. 

I don't protest. 


They perceive me as selfless.

They think I'm nice.

They think I'm their friend.

They want to copy my homework.

They want my attention.

They want me to smile at them.

And I smile.

I do what they want.

Their wish is my command.

I try not to offend.

I do as I'm told.

I behave.


I'm not nice.

But I try to be.

The End

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