Figuring Things Out (Poetry)

There is an art to being lonely —
isolation is a skill
practised by a few with only
half a life and time to kill.

Singular opposed to needing
someone else to make complete
a state of mind content with feeding
on itself to feel replete.

Denying there is something missing
thoughts involved with inner self
seldom stray or dare go fishing —
imagination hugs its shelf.

To reach perfection takes forever
survival draws a cryptic map
with no diversions so dreams never
tumble into love’s sly trap.

It’s tricky staying self-sufficient —
a strict autonomy of one
the heart so-wants a coefficient
to generate some sense of fun.

It’s hard evading things romantic
when a song evicts a sigh
that sudden impulse drives near-frantic
as a certain face drifts by ...

Standoffish — shy — a rank outsider
determined — born to not belong
’til passion strikes — wide eyes grow wider
old calculations turn out wrong.

Quite suddenly you’re seeing double
you number’s up — half-past your prime
while odds and evens bet on trouble
you had the answer all the time.