I dwell alone,--I dwell alone, alone,
Whilst full my river flows down to the sea,
  Gilded with flashing boats
    That bring no friend to me:
O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats,
    O love-pangs, let me be.

Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone
    And spices bear to sea:
Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes,
    Love-promising, entreating,--
    Ah! sweet, but fleeting,--
  Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails.
  Hush! the wind flags and fails,--
Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand,--
  Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone;
Their songs wake singing echoes in my land,--
  They cannot hear me moan.

  One latest, solitary swallow flies
    Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tost,
    Poor bird, shall it be lost?
  Dropped down into this uncongenial sea,
        With no kind eyes
        To watch it while it dies,
      Unguessed, uncared for, free:
        Set free at last,
        The short pang past,
In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.

Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks,
      Some rent by thunder-strokes,
Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze:
      Fair fall my fertile trees,
That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.

A spider's web blocks all mine avenue;
  He catches down and foolish painted flies,
      That spider wary and wise.
Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew
  Betwixt boughs green with sap,
  So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap:
      I will not mar the web,
Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.

It shakes,--my trees shake; for a wind is roused
      In cavern where it housed:
      Each white and quivering sail,
      Of boats among the water leaves
Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale:
      Each maiden sings again,--
Each languid maiden, whom the calm
Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm,
      Miles down my river to the sea
        They float and wane,
      Long miles away from me.
      Perhaps they say: "She grieves,
        Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower."
        Perhaps they say: "One hour
More, and we dance among the golden sheaves."
        Perhaps they say: "One hour
          More, and we stand,
          Face to face, hand in hand;
Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!"

        My trees are not in flower,
        I have no bower,
        And gusty creaks my tower,
And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.

Stroll along the riverbank
With a cautious mind
You'll see the mist ahead
Till your eyesight goes blind

When society bares nothing but hate
Making you feel alone and unwanted
Your brain will begin to compensate
An easy way out or a harder way in
It is your will power that takes it on the chin
That keeps us present

Questioning your existence isn't recommended
But questioning your purpose is welcomed
Someone’s close by to speak
Lets pray
They know that a meaningful silence
Helps more than uncongenial words

The sun rises and gradually begins to kiss our skin
And the mist begins to fade into a vast nothingness
That silent presence is obliged and before you know
That mysterious someone was your own reflection
All along it was your own person that pulled you out of it
Dragging yourself away from uncertainty and towards
Content.

-Joshua L-m

Yearning for this [undiscovered] un-desire,
the gift is heavy; a pregnant darkness, the naissance
of this elixir bittersweet; liquid metallic bruise.
Burning excitement, disappointed surprise,
ripping and tearing and exposing a veiled universe of
inconceivable ideas and notions, ringing clear;
                 unwanted.
I've longed for your arrival, suffocating myself with
the intoxication of the anticipation. Yet,
you were born into this world faceless, uncongenial,
                  mine.

Non-conventional, uncongenial
Paroxysms of a frenzied mind
More natural than supernatural
When stillness was lost, reason itself left