scrawled on the walls of the box

all over the world i realize
i spend my days craving
solitude like addiction
unfolding my isolation box
but i’m reaching a point
i think finally of madness
after months amusing myself
with loud music and guitar
and bindle blogging music
and anti-depressants
and long video games
and even longer books
until there is nothing left
to read and the games
are uninstalled halfway
and my wrist hurts from guitar
which i can still barely play
and the bindle has slowed
to a crawl and i drink
myself drunk every night
and the neighbor just committed
suicide and i’m lonely
out here on the lake
writing poems like bad diary
entries on this beautiful lake
where i do yoga every day
with no car and no means
of escape it’s addiction
this solitude i can’t escape
it i always come back
to my box it’s exhausting
out there in the world
but here too in a way
a different way a missing
something always way
a guilty squirming doubting
way an addict’s way
which i am
in my head
in myself.