Sometimes being among people feels lonely. Cold, 

At times more rotten than winter mold. 

Is it through these phones that I must contact thee, 

Despite the fact that you sit from me naught but two foot or three. 

I will be the first to admit the miracle of tech,

To prevent me from living a life of savage wreck. 

But I do need the attention of a friend, 

Whose kind ear eases me when lent. 

But this crypitc life feels like madness, 

A cycle of brief euphoria and sadness. 

This life would make a little more sense,

If I had a friend--not even a friend--just a human lense. 

With incredulity I daily go where I must go, 

Quiet in my place so as to not disturb. 

With internal anguish, my smile falls ever low, 

Wishing that this would not perturb. 

 

I was once asked the most cursed spell of all, 

and I responded with four grave words. 

I looked up to my mirror wall and uttered, 

"To not be heard."