Isolation in a free house.
Bitter hop mouth.
Dark wood floor.
People to ignore.
Sunlight and fake light,
Spread equal shadow,
On green speckled walls.
Soon to be a home for the arts.
For my arts?
An attempt at conversing,
Is not worth anything.
Simply awkward,
And banal.
Perhaps in denial?
About what? I do not know.
But isn’t that the point,
Of denial?
Well, not the point,
But the experience.
The journey.
A road you don’t know,
You travel.
A sense of confusion,
That you cant quite reach.
Put up on a shelf,
And, even on your toes,
You’re too small.
Too naïve.
Denial.
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