staring at me
- uncaring eyes
penetrating
countless, invisible pricks
- on my burning skin
I see them not
yet I feel their eyes
-probing
for I am not, and cannot be
whole within
heart- it cries
my soul has tried
and therein
only betraying myself
I am alone
and incapable am I
of befriending anyone
- so I converse with myself
how a part of me swells
with desire
to sit on the porch
trading kind words with a boon
but what I am made up of
within
allows not idle buffoonery
dancing not to the mockingbirds tune
it seems to me
when toiling upon cycles of ponderous thoughts
- a flock exists
to which most people are drawn
'we must conform'
for I cannot otherwise fathom the likenesses
within the throngs
for ludicrous is it to presume that as such
they were born
no- I will stay
remaining this way
suffocating myself
in my lonesome thoughts, misery
- than go along
morphing into one
so exactly like the others
- for where ends the similarity?
and how lonesome, I ask
-could one possibly be
with a mind
that spawns many a people and land?
- not as lonesome, I say
as the rest
anguished in questionable turmoil
for there's but one lead singer in a band
yes- I will rock
back and forth,
and mind them not
upon the creaking porch passageway
nursing my momentary
lonesome sorrow
until my mind wakens from its' slumber
to comfort my soul and take me away
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