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Description
I am the product of my own self righteousness,
I choose to be alone,
And,
I choose to take the pain,
That falls neatly into the folds of loneliness,
I may hurt,
Like thousands of needles singing angry songs to my nerve endings,
But creativity does thrive,
As my desolate social world collapses into my burgeoning consciousness,
I pick apart the outside world and everything in it,
I pick apart myself, and everything I am,
From my isolation the world is a wilted flower,
A frail symbol of its potential glory,
And from my isolation I am the shadow
Transparent, cold, and fallen to the floor