Being alone is created from vast amounts of reasons,
quiet minds, quiet mouths, loud poetry and demanding
art. Prying eyes are constant from the outside. Peering
always. Never a helping hand. Not an expressive concern.
Working hard to endure, harder to be oneself. It’s easy to
be like everyone else. Poet continues to dream and lays
it out onto papers, blanket words, for dreaming about
the grandeur greatness, in art and in social forms, are
far more exciting than being one. For it’s sad how much
of life is filled with the mundane. Muddy and murky.
And how disappointing it is when one steps out, to be
something of themselves.
(knowledge variable)