“Here he goes again,” someone mumbles low, As if being smart is a kind of show. They think he’s lying, making it up, Or just trying to act like he’s smart enough. He talks about things they’ve never read, Ideas that swirl inside his head. The teachers nod—"Yes, that's correct"— But even that earns him no respect. Some say he's weird, too much to take, Like being curious is some kind of mistake. He sees the glances, hears the tone, And feels the weight of being alone. He smiles less now, speaks less in class, Lets questions and moments quietly pass. Not because he’s lost what he knows, But because he’s tired of the way it goes. He’s happy when he learns, when the pieces connect, But sad that it only brings more disconnect. He’s not trying to brag, not trying to win— He just has a world of thoughts within. One day, he thinks, they might understand, When truth and time walk hand in hand. But for now, he waits, smart and still— With a quiet mind, and a louder will.
