Lonely
Lonely is a bunch of hair Twirled around the forefinger Round and round, Tighter and tighter... Lonely is a thumb Playing with the fingers One at a time And all over again... Lonely are legs Crossed at the ankles Gliding up the calf, Bumping over the ankle And back again once more... Lonely are vacuous, racing, thoughts High on LSD you never had But threatening to burst through your skull And splatter on the crisp, white wall you lean against... Lonely is a curl of smoke From a mouth twisted in irony... Lonely is the uncontrollable urge to cry When you hear children squeal on emerald green grass... Lonely is what lonely does ... to you... When you are not watching.