Ultra, thin slices of solitude
bypass the beautiful intricacies of loneliness.
The future is selling favors.
I live in a world, stuttering
My back aches as I move from my desk,
they are playing old,
I struggle to catch my feelings on the page,
as I smudge the blue ink with the scribblings from the next page.
Vampire, come suck away this feeling from me.
Loneliness is not solitude.
It is the writer alone in her head,
searching for a place to write before
the feeling blows away
like dandelion wishes
into another world.