I don't mind people
From the back of the room
Everyone can talk
As long as I can be quiet
I don't mind noise
When I don't have to take part
Stranger's conversations
Heard from afar
Are the greatest things
I get to know people
Without saying a word
Sometimes I'll talk
For hours at a time
But talking leaves me drained
And for the most part
I'd rather just be quiet

Desperation, exasperation, exhaustion to disintegration, elation to devastation, relocation leads to temptation, exemption and no inclusion. Distrust damage intrusion. Castration emancipation, immaculate imagination, alleviation elevation ultimate aggravation, depression and frustration suppression of my attention, aggression is inconclusive, my lonely mind all but intrusive. Regression of this introvert, selfless, sanctified, reclusive.

If they had the brains
to call me a misanthrope
you think they could know
that's what I'm not

I don't hate you humans
I hate your social conventions
and my chest gets tight
when I'm around groups

I'm introverted

Social introverts and a shy extroverts.
Dyslectics grading better in spelling.
Deaf children who know more words.
People with anxiety better at selling.

Kids with ADHD who are more calm.
Autistics who can relate better.
Paralysed people able to feel their palm.
A blind person ready to read every letter.

Who could guess their equality.
Could you imagine, you can't tell 'em appart?
Who could even think of such a society.
Just look at this, humanity's piece of art!

Who could imagine I'm one of ''them''.
One alike you and the rest of this place.
For we all are a different kind of gem.
All shining in our own simple grace.

If there's a ''them'' and there's an ''us''.
But none can tell one from another.
Is there a ''them'' at all, thus.
Then why a ''them'', it's only a bother.

Leave me alone
I want to be quiet
Yeah, I know you want to talk.

You do things your way
I’ll do things mine.
But just, please promise you’ll stop.

Nursing cracked paper backs and dusty reference works,
Softly uttered beauty,
Topped by brown bun glows in alabaster skin,
Bespectacled,
She whispers,
Quiet please.

Words slip through fingers,
Stretched,
In constrained eroticism,
A country woman in tweed.

Her passing stamp,
Over a pristine white sheet,
beckoning,
“return”.

Reading her unspoken words,
A chapter opens,
I succumb to her prose,
Love,
I suppose.

rush hour for thoughts 'waits
home's warmth and intimacy
that calms ones traffic.