sonku

i don't get out much.
sometimes i send letters to friends,
but they never respond.

perhaps the postman
holds a grudge on my lonely soul,
and burns my SOS calls.

or

perhaps i'm crazy,
and believe the illusions
that padded white rooms combat.

or

perhaps i'm in love
with the world and its atmosphere,
constantly craving life.

its ironic that i
choose to be cut off from everyone,
but still love to live.

i don't get out much.
maybe i should write some letters
to a door crafting commitee
i blame my problems on organizations of superior beings.