All men’s miseries derive from

not being able to sit in a quiet

room alone.

--Blaise Pascal

Gloom, doom,

I sit alone in a room,

silent, a tomb,

waiting for the black face

of boredom to pollute the air.

It wipes the smile off my face.

Solitude doesn’t suit me.

There’s no one

to see, talk to, or touch.

Time stands still.

I might as well be

a naked tree .

I survive

in this vacuum tube.

I hold up a mirror

in front of my nose

to look for the mist

of my breath.

My thoughts, a mindless

merry-go-round never stops.

My soul atrophies,

a muscle no longer used.

I must touch myself

to heal the hernia in my brain,

and find out if I’m still here.