lonelynature

My history is written,

Enclosed in the minds on those who knew me,

Twisted and fractured.

Changed by time and perspective,

Stored in the records of the country,

Silence, loud, deafening silence. I can’t look her in the eyes, but I can’t rip mine away, so I stare. It’s not awkward or anything, I mean she’s staring too.

I’m put in a box

Here I’ll stay, as from the edge

I was pushed away

I’m angry, I’m furious, I’ll try to let it out by complaining,

by venting, by ranting, maybe to one, two, or even three people.

I sit in the corner, listening to the conversation,

started like it was just breathing to them,

I want that, but my heart doesn’t yearn as much,

or maybe it yearns infinitely more.

I sit in the corner, cradling a book, 

or laptop, or phone, or nothing at all,

I sit in the corner listening to the hum of chatter,

I focus on different voices,