I am the wolf led astray from its pack,
Hunting, alone, amidst cold, icy snow;
I am the hair turned white amongst black,
Rapidly aging, having known much woe;
I am the aspen in a forest full of pines,
Bright, full of life, offset against dark;
I am the gold buried deep within mines,
A treasure, surreal, in a place so stark;
I am the nail sticking out on the plank,
Yet to be struck, hammered and buried;
I am the log that's drifted by the bank,
Riding with the flow; at ease, unhurried;
I am the outcast, cursed to stay strong,
For I know not where I feel I belong.
The ratio of good to bad people in this world will always be tipped in favor of the latter. Always. But that ratio in your own social circle, you can control. And there, and only there, can the balance be favorably tipped, so that those who love you far outnumber those who don't.