Failed Visionary
The object of this restlessness that puzzles you
is solitude: a loneliness for loneliness,
a wistfulness for restlessness,
a straining back to what comes naturally –
the way things used to be
when I had only me.
I miss myself madly.
I long to be romantically involved
with myself again, like old times:
dependent only upon independence,
demanding only temptation.
Posted on January 27, 2013 at 8:05 am in Antiepithalamia | RSS feed | Reply | Trackback URL
I hate poetry, but your reading yours is like reading my exact thoughts and feelings in a way I could never manage to write. I guess the reason I’ve never really connected with poetry before wasn’t because I couldn’t get poetry, but because poetry couldn’t get me. Your poetry gets me.
John Tottenham