You’re wondering if I’m lonely.
Okay, then, yes.
I’m lonely
Like a plane full of strangers all with headphones in,
Seen from the ground as a
Fast vanishing light, here and then not

I’m lonely like a woman driving across the country,
Day after day,
Throwing away mile after mile,
Forgetting to drink the coffee she bought in
Towns that she might have stopped in,
Lived and grown old and died in  

Am I lonely?
Sure, the loneliness of walking a city in the early morning in winter
The streetlights stretching your shadows into crowds of acquaintances
Stumbling over each other to whisper their own inane advice

Alone when I wake to a house still asleep and I move too quietly even though
I’m the only one there, afraid to disturb the solitude snoozing in the attic
I drink my tea and watch the cars
Lonely

It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away

As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start

But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save

Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out

Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone

Work © Mike Hauser & © Sia Jane