I live inside myself
my own little world
I read my own books
and poetry
and listen to my own music
sure, I absorb others material
as much as I can
but I am only a lurker
looking over the Earth
silently
from my dark little island
gazing over seas
both digital and real
wondering how the others do it
Are they just good at pretending?
Are they really not as insincere
as they all appear?
These feelings, or lack thereof
are thrown up like smoke signals
from the fire inside me
hoping another
might see or hear
with eyes, ears, heart, soul and mind
that are almost mine
to rescue me
from this strange illusion
of my own creation