Standing here,
Alone and damp,
Drenched in my own self.
I want to be infatuated
With anyone
With myself.

I can't say some words.
They don’t come naturally.
Is it my fault?
Or is it yours,
For expecting too much,
And giving too little?

My basket is full
Well over the brim
I filled it myself
And I'll empty it myself.
Then fill it again
When the day comes again.

"If I was you,
I'd clean up my act."
Said a soft voice from behind.
Pivoting fast,
I turned around.
An empty silence.

Hollow
"I could if I wanted to,
But not now,
Another day perhaps"
Pause
“Talking to ones self,
The first sign of insanity.”