I have this pen but not much paper,
(I forgot my journal in my haste
to rush out into the world),
so I must make every scribble count.
I walk among these people and they’re happy,
even though I know they all have secret sorrows.
Maybe some are wasting away as they sit,
laughing, sharing stories of their lives.
All I want is to belong, but I don’t.
I have been away too long from
the easy give-and-take, the casual smile,
the social niceties that smooth one’s way
It’s an art, a learned response,
almost a script for some,
and I have forgotten my lines.
I lie here on green grass instead,
telling my stories to the wind.
© 2012 RC deWinter
On isolation from the mainstream.