Sometimes being among people feels lonely. Cold,
At times more rotten than winter mold.
Is it through these phones that I must contact thee,
Despite the fact that you sit from me naught but two foot or three.
I will be the first to admit the miracle of tech,
To prevent me from living a life of savage wreck.
But I do need the attention of a friend,
Whose kind ear eases me when lent.
But this crypitc life feels like madness,
A cycle of brief euphoria and sadness.
This life would make a little more sense,
If I had a friend--not even a friend--just a human lense.
With incredulity I daily go where I must go,
Quiet in my place so as to not disturb.
With internal anguish, my smile falls ever low,
Wishing that this would not perturb.
I was once asked the most cursed spell of all,
and I responded with four grave words.
I looked up to my mirror wall and uttered,
"To not be heard."