Because Sigur Ros is on loop//

This is what I want.

I'm not too sure what "this"
really is. It could be the warm glow
of the desk lamp
or the distant calming screech
of crickets.

Or it could simply be the fact
that I'm immediately,
really, truly alone.

Well, at least til
the roommate bursts
through that door with his
flamboyannt
tales of things
far removed from
the "this" and now.

For quite a long time now,
I do find myself
like an outsider. A social destitute
of sorts, thrown out in the
cold,
tropical
storm.

I pass by closed
doors and, as best I can,
catch whiffs of baked breads
that I can never imagine to taste.

That knocking on the window
you thought you heard?
That's my attempts at drawing
your attention,
away
from your hearth and conversations
of nothings and everythings.

You failed to hear me,
and I failed,
terribly,
to get out of this
desolate,
isolate
storm.

Or maybe I don't want to be heard.

Because it is in this
recluse
that I truly hear the one
that ought to be heard;

Myself,

for so long is it subdued
that I scant recognise when I heard.

Have you heard yours?

I'll run up and down the street screaming at the top of my lungs, waving my hands in the air, because clearly, I don't care. Peer out your windows at this one-Man commotion. I hear Me and oh how great that sounds.


I like how the "enter" key can help turn bad prose to even worse poetry. ^^