Call A Spade A Spade Poem by RIC BASTASA

at that very young age
you were taught to call a spade a spade
and a square a square. There are no exceptions to the rule.
There are no compromises with the truth.

Then you grow to be a very nice, self-made man.
You practice what was taught to you.
And you meet pain and disappointments.
And you suspect that the teachers are wrong.

Time teaches you.
Squares sometimes become rectangles on an extension of a principle
to accommodate a compromise of a certain shape.
A spade need not be a spade depending on who gets axed.
A square peg you sometimes put in a round hole and it does not matter
really what happens next. You are simply told to do so as ordered.
And what is important is that they like it.
You survive the hazards of this life.

You become successful on the science of compromise,
the art of plea bargaining, the techniques of human relations.
You get some plaques for a lessened self-restraint.
You get the awards and recognitions for being their man of the year.

And one day you look at yourself in the mirror.
You see a different face and you do not like it anymore.

You quit and hide. You go away. You want to be left alone.
You want to reinvent yourself and listen to the voice.

Carefully, you cure the sickness of success.
All you need is a self who accepts yourself. All you need is the touch
of your hand. The applause has become pain itself.
And there you are, finding the truth again.The real meaning.