I sit here alone, writing down my thoughts.
As I have no one to tell,
my pen and paper become the closest of all.
It seems as when I found myself,
I was abandoned and betrayed.
Still, I will be true to myself
even if it means,
I will have to fake a smile everyday.

The second I turn to loneliness
I start a dialogue with myself.
Fantasising company,
to take away my empty shallow heart.
Still, it only seems to be
schizophrenic attempts.

At night when I feel alone
and need some kind of love,
I sympathize with myself.
Hence, I kindly caress my chin and arm
hoping that it is someone else.
Silently weeping, seeking comfort
- within myself.