Loneliness is the
browned & crisp maple leaf
pressed & molded
to the cold & jagged pavement
on a oneway street.
Its eyes stay awake,
staring straight into the nothingness
of the blueblack galaxy because it has
no other choice.
Snapped from the
arms of its mother,
waterlogged & weathered–
it eventually disintegrates
into tiny burnt
disperse into an abyss.
There is another side to being alone
that is oftentimes swept under the rug.
There is another kind of solitude
that makes a man want to break out of the shell
of what was, and rise to what can be.
Being with myself
[when done right, at a particular angle]
lights my soul on fire
& creativity flows from the streams
that stain my cheeks.