The strange thing about being alone

Is how friends don’t know you’re alone

Or don’t realise

Or don’t care

 

The strange thing about being on your own

Is that you never lose an argument

When you argue with yourself.

 

Being alone,

All alone.

No comfort

No hugs

No support

No assurance

No-one to tell you what you’re doing is right

No-one to tell you what you’re doing is wrong.

 

Your poetry gets full of angst

There’s discordance in your song

Your art is dark and gloomy

There’s no love

Except the twisted bitter kind

No joy

Except the joy of misery

You’ve no wish to be brave or strong.

 

But hey,

At least your carbon footprint’s low.