Hypocorism

As I sit in a draft
sunk into trimmed grass
I read the letters of
poor-me souls
and I laugh at the way
they bleed all over themselves
and expect the sympathy
of others

I mock that which others
find so tragic and awful
and I complain
when one is judged by
one's appearance alone

As I sit on that plateau
I mimic and snicker
at what I believe to be
the stupidity of others

but I do not allow myself
to glance further across the field
because there I will find a pond
so crystal clear
my reflection will show its face
and I shall be ashamed.