The Solitary Poet

I dwell in pools of yesterday's
madness.

Words scream in alcoves
of thoughts,
scratching to be unveiled
within scribbles of poetry
that is only read by eyes
of dwelling shadows.

I verbalize with punctuation
as if grammar was a guest
in a summer evening tea party.

Conversation comforts me
while lips mate with silence.

When my spirit whispers in a tree
on the hill,
maybe then society will understand
how solitary it can be,
to be a poet.