Are You Alone


1. Are You Alone

                Are you alone?

I should think morbidly so, like a prisoner whose prison is his dissatisfaction

Even more when in the company of others since I contract further and linger in the bleak

Though frequented landscapes of my mind


                                                                                                                Are you alone?

I didn’t use to be, but I’ve since cut all emotional ties to live within myself a trembling mess

Outwardly fearless because the world has become unreal

Outwardly arrogantly unable to hide my disinterest and driving others from me as they have driven me deeper

Within Myself


                                                                                                                Are you alone?

I don’t know but I am a non-masochist Jim Morrison

I am a reincarnated Proust searching for the past I know

I am a closeted heterosexual

How can I sleep if I don’t sit up staring at my ceiling praying to myself

How can I write if I don’t voluntarily dry all other routes of success

I am Holden Caulfield stuck in the rye but

I want to fall over that cliff

I am a devoutly religious atheist forging a landless pagan belief of words for myself

Reading the holy books in the dark where the words mean more

All the more meaningful to me


                                                                                                                Are you alone?

If you count me as my best friend or books as people I am never alone

I don’t get math because my notebook has no hyperbolas

Only word sketches and picto-poems

Illicitly showering this isolation

Impregnating myself with radicalism and

Though most of these literary embryos are miscarriages which anger me

A few have survived to be Rimbauds


                                                                                                                Are you alone?

I like to think so in my delusion but who can say for sure

At parties I sit at the bar and drink coffee not liquor and my father drinks liquor and I hate my father

Or quietly observe the awkwardness set in that I don’t feel

Probably because my whole childhood was an awkward silence

I know I always was

As my dad threw corn across the kitchen or supper-trays in

The family room or god knows what behind the closed doors of the garage shouting


Don’t tell me you rehabilitation depends on me and how I treat you

I’ll put this straight and unpoetically: you

Are a fucking asshole and

I’m ashamed that I’m carrying the same DNA as you


                                                                                                                Are you alone?

If my life was a picture and I saw it everything

Would be blurry except for me with my head hunched

Because that is all I understand I

And transcendentally living in some introverted world of self-analysis and auteur divination

Oh fuck

Oh fuck oh fuck

It’s nauseatingly familiar to discuss myself

I’ve run out of adjectives in these self-portraits I’ve

Produced; all these repetitive discourses running dry

But what else is there to write about I can’t be

Commonplace; nobody has written about me

But the catch: everyone writes about themselves

When I feel good I write like Allen Ginsberg (not as well obviously)

Normal; like O’Hara

Only when I’m depressed to I achieve my own voice

I know I am but I don’t feel it anymore but I swallow I blue lie every morning so we can

Chemically alter me biologically and

Suppress these true annoyances, the awful


And blind some neuroreceptors making me

Energetically aware of myself and constipated


                                                                                                                Are you alone?

I am; in this wellbutrin induced I don’t even know what

I               don’t                    know

See; it’s progressed from lyrical to capitalized monowordlines


Random line breaks reflecting confusion I’m

Solacing myself because I’m aware of one thing

That my life is becoming irreparably distorted on a track to humiliation dissension and I don’t give any sort of fuck about it

But an elevated constant of myself is aware of this and how I used to care and succeed and is worried yet

Cannot really define success anymore because nothing processes and nothing is worthy enough to attain and label ‘success’

Nothing satisfies this ambition without an outlet besides a hopeless artistic one

Nothing gives me purpose so I’m a gyrating soup of fallacy

Nothing is everything because nothing is of true substance


                                                                                                Are you alone?

I’m sorry.  So sorry.  That’s what I am.  Just sorry.  I want to say it more, because it’s all I feel, but there is only one way.

I’m sorry.


Are you alone?


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