All Alone

By H. L. Dowless

All alone, 
talking to myself. 
Alone, 
staring at the walls, 
‘tis only me and nobody else. 

Alone, 
with my own mixed up thoughts. 
Alone, 
with my haunting terror dreams; 
hearing whispers all about, 
I must be going mad so it seems. 

It's only me, 
seeing what I want to see, 
reading what I want to read, 
yet still not being where I want to be, 
its all such a bedazzling mystery. 

This ringing in my head is so loud, 
the drip in the sink so intense, 
an electric hum in the room is all around, 
now this small space seems so immense.  

Alone, 
unto where has all my precious time flown? 
Often I sleep in daytime hours, 
yet an intrinsic yearning for new adventure has strangely grown;  I try to quash my inner illness by taking long showers. 

Alone, 
with only me and my books. 
Alone, 
with me writing these poems. 
Alone, 
with the laughing spirits and the imaginary freaks, all alone in the witching hour thunder storms. 

When I lay down with my other in the bed, 
yet still I wake up with myself. 
In the end when all is finally said, 
its only me and nobody else. 

When the day arrives that they finally lay me down, all alone in a box is where I’ll be. 
Complete stillness shall then envelope  
and no sound, 
as I slumber in that void of eternal secrecy.