I'll think of the vicissitude that, with centrifugal force, spins me around and tears me to a million merging pieces; the human cultural 'melting pot'; the many that's singularly defined; the spontaneous, synchronicity of a multiplicity. I beg, nay, crave your attention and desire. I spill out all manner of fictitious facts to entwine and entertain you, so that one day you'll really see me, know me, love me. And then, you'll bore me immensely, and wanting nothing but solitude, I'll tell you to fuck off. I dream of celebrity status from the liberty of anonymity. I enjoy my lonely ways, here I have the company who never need ask or pry.
What is this solitary life
I’ve garnered for myself?
A phobia to commit
in social circles, or,
just a reluctance?
Do I see no joy
in extending my many words to others?
It could be less-
a lack of effort, often mistaken
for arrogance, that
sometimes
finds its rest.
Does every example prove
there is no other soul like mine?
Alas,
those most like me are
surely hidden
within their own vestige of self,
and so,
those with whom I am kindred…
We shall never know
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