How does one communicate?

That intricacy is what makes humans unique, our deep capacity to love and hate,

the need to be understood that connection we seek.

If I touch you and if you touch me, if our hands intertwined like a lock without a key

because we’re on the verge of drowning

in this lonely public sea

or maybe it’s just me.

And all we want is not to be alone,

that’s why we text and tweet

why were so attached to our phones.

We don’t pay because its touch screen or because it’s the next best thing,

we pay because we forgot how to talk face to face without taking it as flirting.

So instead I’ll take their number and they’ll take mine

and we’ll text back and forth and I’ll take note of their response time.

So why are we always doing this?

Because it’s worst when we’re alone,

when you can sit back on the broken throne and see how your problems have grown.

When you can feel it like a glove around your hand

cutting off circulation like a stretched rubber band,

keeping blood from where it needs to go

keeping you from where you need to be,

blinding your eyes so you can’t see

and filling your stomach with anxiety.

Writing like this is hard for me.

Because I’ve been trying to do it for so long,

my thoughts are like a repetitive song

where you don’t know the exact words

because they’re haphazard and confusing like a flock of compass-less birds

AND like a stream I know I’m going to run dry.

Eventually I’m not going to know how to rhyme.

And I’ll write a poem and throw it in the trash

because it doesn’t feel right to me like a literary train crash.

So before I get to that point, before my mind is numb,

and people look at me more frequently than they already do

and associate me with the word dumb,

I need to find someone like me.

Someone who won’t call me weird because they see what I see,

someone who frequently spontaneously needs to move,

who doesn’t understand art but would still visit the Louvre.

I need a friend, not a means to an end,

see I have people I know and like and they come to me again and again.

They’ll ask me for money and I’ll say yes

they’ll ask me for help and I’ll do my best,

but when it comes to be time to dance around flames

and whisper secrets as they play their little games,

well its always the same,

I’ll never be asked to play their reindeer games.

I suppose I’m to blame.

And I could say that I don’t need them and then you’d probably agree

like, “Yeah, you can have fun by yourself you’ll see.”

Then we’d laugh and you’d walk away

and I would go back to my day.

I know pretty much everyone, I’ve grown to understand the small society we’ve built,

and even if I don’t get all I know enough not to wilt.

So maybe it’s just me who doesn’t really have any friends.

Maybe I’m the only one whose life is full of random twists and bends.

Maybe I’m the only one who has intense conversations with themselves.

Maybe I’m the only one who grew up not believing in Santa’s elves.

At this point I don’t really care, because I know lifes not fair.