there’s a melancholy feel that erupts my whole being 

from the tips of my hair to ends of my feet. 

sometimes i don’t know 

what it is. 

is it live? 

longing for the attentiveness of someone else 

other than my own 

sudo euphoric Utopia

i’ve fashioned for myself

from the midst of me digging my own grave? 

is it the fleet footed feeling i get

when writing these dialogs 

i entertain myself with. 

is it the sad tone that underlies

everything that has ever 

erected 

out of my malignant mind? 

is that place, that corner, deep down inside 

is that where i’ll find what i’ve been bleeding to find? 

is it the love for the

people

place

things

ideas 

i have for others 

he she and them 

but never me? 

is it the Ag feeling i have when

i begin to write down such 

putrid constructs 

contradictions to what 

i want to indulge in 

the love of others 

yet self love is a myth

the love for others 

yet love from them is a

a fairy tail i was never told

during the nights when 

the only friend i have is

the 

owl 

chanting 

who? 

who? 

who? will be the culprit 

in the prison of my imagination? 

who will break these bars 

release me from my 

self constructed 

abhorred prison 

i saw 

as the equivalent of a home. 

who will swing open the doors? 

show me that the bars are thread. 

the key are nowhere but in my hand. 

a mirror. 

 

who? 

who?

you?