Social Phobia

Social Phobia


This weathered leather chair

sits before me.

Its aged skin

screams mortality.

Sitting still

With an identity actualized

By the world:

Simply a chair

that cannot think.


For now,

I sit apart

Existing in between

syllables that ring


one, two, three

tolls of a bell

cracking the night’s silence—

pulling me away

from one truism:

Unique is ok.


Observe me while you will

With your gold plated spectacles

That scream scrutiny,

And observe:

climb the stairs of my throat

up my brain stem

into my brain,

see my mind

separated like chloroform

severing consciousness.


I look upon the

screen that plays my thoughts,


geometric patterns

that will never connect,

a skeleton smashed,

its alabaster bones

lain strew:

the delusion of my social interactions.


A knife,

a blood streaked screen.

I commit suicide once in my mind,

then in reality:

impulses exploding,

spattering a deep red.

Behold my actions spawned

from my thoughts


like the DNA of an alien


from the faucet

of my mind

into reality—distorted, cryptic patterns of my daily

social logs.

I remain a puddle

without a ripple,

frozen over, cracked.


The doctor says this is irrational,

But I just don’t know.


For now,

I will sit

In this weathered leather chair,

comfy as it envelops my aura

with the same simplicity

as stars falling upon the night.





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