Hell is other people.
Dad told me that.
They smile and send me good vibes.
But they make me wear a timekeeping hat.
People think of themselves—
Never as much as they think of you
They don’t grasp how much my soul delves
Into solitude
To find beauty, richness, and complexity too.
All day I work with people
People who came to work to lime,
Students who came to school to mate,
Courtship dancing all the time,
With their earrings and short skirts and gun-mouth pants
And accessories multifarious for what should be uniform,
And for their should-be gurus,
(Instead of creative consultation during off-hours)
Football and office gossip is the norm.
Hell is other people.
No matter how much they smile.
Unless you can get them to help you
They just don’t make themselves worth your while.
Disappointingly irrational
Inconsistent too many times
Whether in grammar or in philosophy
Reminding you less of sapodillas
And more of bright green limes—
In taste, not nutritional value—
Making you love solitude
Making you bear socialization
As if it is punishment for your hidden crimes.
If I hadn’t blasphemed against my holy spirit,
The unforgivable sin,
I would be great, great enough not to need as many people
Great enough to enter in
To the heaven known by folks who live like fictitious Bruce Wayne
Surrounded only by persons of whose value they are sure
Able to purchase a moat of separation
From the others
Whose behaviour makes them a bane
To individual fulfillment and achievement.
Hell is other people. True, though it might be a shame.
Hell Is Other People
by Nzingha