Loneliness — or So It’s Called
A poem that doesn’t rhyme, have meter or form and probably isn’t even a damn poem
… by Kelly Dean
I’m living proof a man can rain dance naked in the tropical moonlight wearing nothing but chiffon leggings and a house arrest bracelet.
I’m living proof that cats, dogs and other well-done taxidermy don’t judge you for being overweight.
I’m living proof that taking a shower can be the highlight of one’s day week month year unnecessary.
I’m living proof that the washing machine loves you and will eventually respond if you — just — don’t – give — up on her!
Loneliness is tapping your foot to Radiohead and The Cure.
Loneliness is the comfort in knowing your corpse won’t be violated after you die for the two months it takes to find it.
Loneliness is not a negative. No. It’s not. No. Huh uh. Negative. Nope. Never.
Loneliness is an opportunity to write haikus, play pan flute and sing Bjork in the original octave.
Loneliness means frequently standing on a chair just under the ceiling fan can be an opportunity to dust when plans change.
Loneliness is a chance to place tiny seeds under your toenails to see if bigger plants will grow there too.
Being alone is like being with people –- only the opposite.
Embrace loneliness. Tickle it. Give it a cookie. Because loneliness is the clarity of knowing that what you smell is indeed you.