The lone wolf mythology is a ego driven shield behind which hides the shy and the wounded;
I have resided in that den of pretend solitude only to rage at the overwhelming loneliness as the need for companionship screamed and beat fists from inside of my chest, the heart hammering at my ribs to be free of its proud prison.

The need for individualization and a removed identity is just another drug to poets and artists; where else to find motivation if not within our personal tragedy still wet from the drink and tears, and blood spilled from hearts never quite mended, soldiers of love who feel in a way the common man cannot, will not, for who better to put pen to paper the raw emotions of man if not those who are lost in their feelings like maggots writhing in forgotten butchered meat, wounds that will never heal yet can only be seen in the wary yet wide open eyes of the addict yearning for the next high, not for the warmth and caring that is love rather for to the hurt and the harm and the inspiration that can be found there.