The world is no stranger than before,
Only a ball of annoying matter,
With my thoughts I sit lonely and absorbed,
At least in this I can avoid their chatter.
It would be great if responsibility could end,
And then I could turn a blind eye to much,
For in these senseless tasks that I am moved within,
There is nothing that in it that I long to touch.
Beauty I do see in flowers, and in selfless acts,
In the grey gloom of rainstorms and blinding mist,
Quiet solitude is all I wish to attract,
So that I may write with fury to my heart's content.
For I'd like to be dead to the world for long,
That I might emerge in freedom in the drowning throng.
Die With Me