How can I describe this feeling?
This feeling I have come to see as
more of a state of being,
or a dimly-lit pit I can't escape.

Somewhat aware of how I
spiraled down into this cold space,
I look for my face
in the ocean's reflection;
this is my only method
of staying sane—
acknowledging my existence
in this everlasting present.

This hole is my home.
I decorate it with art from
loony, lonesome, love-struck painters,
and books stacked upon each other
like their years,
the infinite time I spend here.

Part of me would like to leave.
Another part always wants to stay.
Because there's something comforting,
something special about a home
that is nobody's but your own.

Guests are always welcome,
but nobody really cares to sit.
This I am content with.
I'll hold this loneliness dear to me—
more dear than I would
a love.

Brinn W.

This poem was created and written by Brinn Wallin.
Please do not steal or copy without permission. 

*All Rights Reserved*