Author of My Own Solitude

I push them away,

Yet hope they stay.

I turn my back,

But hope for the hand on my shoulder.

Get angry at their interference,

But really at my being a burden.

Gradually all those close fade away,

Those friends I hold dear.

Turn away once I do so.

Is it something I said?

Something I did?

Mere circumstance?

Who I am?

Am I the author of my own solitude?

Or is it circumstance?

Am I even perceiving correctly?

Am I the author of my own solitude?

Despite my best efforts.

Or is this natural?

Maybe I am the author.

Writing a novel I cannot see.

Cannot see and cannot change.

My own solitude.

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2 thoughts on “Author of My Own Solitude

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