Quiet

All quiet. Nobody in sight.

All is busy, yet away from me.

Sitting here. Trying to build reason.

To reassure that I’m not alone,
Not the only person in existence.

It is so quiet though.

Reaching out, wanting a human presence.

To show I’m not the only person in existence.

Looking out at the window.

Wanting a change, yet the past proves me otherwise.

Alone. All quiet.
Reality, existence, barely there.
Hard to know if existence is real.

If I am looking into the cold wind,
The dark horizon.
The quiet eternal storm.

Advertisements

Lonely Figure By the Pond-Side

That lonely figure by the pond-side.

Drooped over, embracing this solitude they find themself in. Holding a hand up to the sky.

Wondering if anyone will pass by,

Wondering where their life has gone,

The warmth evaporated.

Tears run down their cheek,

Flowing into the collection of water around them.

Watching people walk past and fade,

They remain,

They remain unmistakably alone, with no one.

No once can hear their cries,

No one wants to.

No one pays them attention,

They don’t deserve it.

Left alone wondering by the lakeside,

The reflection, a mirage, beckoning them further in.

Showing a reflection; the tired eyes, deep wrinkles, sad demeanour, empty mind and sad soul.

The figure kneels, absorbing the loneliness,

Wanting an end to the emptiness.

Looking around and longing,

For a friend to site beside them.

Waiting for home to find them.

Then comes the realisation:

They are alone, are unwanted and a burden to all who had once cared.

They are in a turbulent and reluctant peace.

Leaving all whom they cares about alone.

Because they are alone, are unwanted and a burden to all who had once cared.

They are then left, a mere sad and lonely figure, sitting by the pond side.

Those Tears Drying On My Face

Those tears drying on my hurting face.

The pained reminder.

The awkward smile.

The reality insufficient in mind.

A time of being, thinking and meaning.

Making up the mind through the tear-soaked face.

The smile beneath the crying face.

Knowing you are there but really aren’t.

Why am I not surprised.

It never changes.

This never changes.

The tears dry on my face,

Time and time again,

An indelible mark.

The collection of sorrows that mark my mind.

The collection of times, always on my mind.

Waiting,

Longing.

A character, alone,

Walking empty through life.

As those tears dry on my face.

Lonesome

Faulty,

Mind incomplete when alone,

Friends or human,

To remind me of existence.

To remember what exists,

Memories, of the past,

The present and its being

The future and the shining future.

All shrouded by the lack of presence,

Lack of feeling.

The times all gone.

Looking for constant distractions,

To fill my mind,

To surround myself in company.

To cope living,

In my mind. Alone.

Oh, how others make it seem easy.

Relaxing and being free.

While I distract myself from the feeling.

The lonesome feeling.

The waiting for something.

Nothing in particular.

But feeling.

To feel being.

To grasp life,

And enjoy living.

Enjoy being.

A constant distraction I seek.

Will it be found?

Can it be found?

Am I doomed to lonesome existence.

Is this a fault in my mind?

The lonesome nature of existence.