A cascade of words parade around,
with thoughts of atoms and connotation.
She is brilliant, they say,
but she knows she is lost.
Numbers are her companion,
she understands their mean, average.
Words can twist her brain,
she loves the wonder they bring.
She is intelligent, they say,
she doesn't feel clever enough.
Sometimes she feels clever too much.
Excusez-moi, in perfect French,
but nothing is gained by perfect word tense.
She is clever, they say.
But she is not clever the way they know.
She sees things as they are,
and she prefers her thoughts to the world.
She knows she loves them more than they in return,
and her friends will be there until they wont.
Friends reassure her, you'll be okay,
she puts a smile on her face.
She loves them as much as any,
even though there aren't many.
They bring out the best in her,
the happy girl,
not swamped by words.
The one who isn't drowning in formula.
Test scores and numbers don't mark you smart,
she knows this now,
engraved in her heart.
IQ can't buy you happiness.
Inside, she knows she's smart.
Smarter than all of them,
because she looks in the mirror,
and sees what she is.
There are not numbers to comfort her,
she cannot measure her heart.
She sees the world is cruel and harsh,
so she bitersweetly smiles along.
Silence and books are safety,
but still she longs for more.
So she sits with a notebook and a pen,
and waits for the knock on her door.