Loneliness, is the fickle manifestation of all I'm lacking.
An ubiquitous fire, all consuming the very depth of being.
Open the doors and windows, turn open the showers,
Blow this fire out, drown it in a feeble cry of joy.
Father figures, mother figures, shadow figures,
Silhouettes that wander on my wall at night,
Demanding that I love them, plead them in plunder,
And then smile and let go of imaginary shoulders.
So simply they assume their roles as they can,
Unbecoming the trivial picture they painted before.
Repairing, mending, heeding to every need,
Becoming a crutch, ill-disposed of necessity.
Then just just as smoothly as was the arrival,
Is the exit of the medication that holds you.
Compels me to believe that I am helpless,
Compels me to pine for their existence.
And suddenly, we are withdrawn addicts,
Narcoleptics that wake screaming for love,
And hunger for sustenance in bitter sleep,
Men that are bitter for independence forsake them.
Reminiscent of what loneliness began with,
Cognizant of why lies healed temporarily
Immune to words of comfort, and endorsement,
But still consumed by every bit of our own being.
Full of your own soul, or empty of another's,
The fire keeps on burning, the light of day,
Sending us searching, barefoot and mind,
Till we can somehow extinguish it with someone else.