Tag Archives: alone

Solitude

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Among all the pretty faces,
peach-pink cheeks and smokey eyes.
Long, long lashes, and pen-drawn lips,
and gowns the color of the skies;
in hues of orange, yellow, red, and grey,
white, and black, and cerulean,
and all others of the stars, sun, and moon,
and every other that there has been.

Among all the pretty faces,
in a crowd packed tight of panderers,
I have never felt so perfectly alone;
not that it ever mattered.

Among the multitude of swollen sorrow,
wreathed with lies built of smoke and deceit,
along walkways, long worn by travel and run;
no one should notice me.
In a crowd of thousands of people
each with a different world,
no one should look down upon an invalid,
who poses as a girl.

Among the multitude of swollen sorrow,
each a purpose greater than mine,
each a stranger in very right
with no strings left to intertwine.

Among the throngs of faux brown fur and thread,
with eyes as black as night,
looking on with constant ambivalence
to the once deploring fight.
Watching without feeling,
hoping without care.
Inanimate stuffed animals
who don’t know that I am there.

Among the throngs of faux brown fur and thread
and memories of what is gone.
Here in my room, thinking of you,
I’ve never felt more alone.

I hate loneliness. I really do. I suppose we all do, but I honestly have it as a huge phobia. Strangely enough, I don’t mind being on my own. There is a difference between being “alone” and being “on your own.” I feel the most lonely when I’m in a crowd of people. When there are hundreds around me, but none that I can call my friends. When I’m just on my own in the house, or whatever the case may be, I can walk around singing at the top of my lungs and doing pretty much whatever I want.

But in public, you are supposed to pretend. In public, one must be mature, and act responsibly. Or rather, I am forced to pretend. Perhaps there are those out there who enjoy being mature and lady-like. I just don’t happen to be one of them.

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