TP (December 13,1981 / Canada)

Solitude

I hate nights spent in solitude
with nothing but the sound
of my breath:
s l o w l y inhale,
let it out even s l o w e r.

It seems the night will never end,
but it does,
and the sun barely shows
its large, round, golden face.
I rarely enjoy the morning though,
as I know it means the start
of one more l o n g, boring day,
and yet another l o n g,
lonesome
night in silence.

I have a dream-
the same each night:
about NOT having to cry
myself to sleep at night;
but every morning I wake up,
and realize it was just a fantasy.

I do not know how to break
this chain of continuous boredom
and complete
solitude,
and I have no one to tell but
myself.

by Theresa Potts

Other poems of POTTS (7)

Comments (2)

'No one to tell but yourself'- and thankfully all of us. This is a perfect example of why poetry is so important! It is our best friend. We can say, feel, think of everything in the world, and poetry accepts us no matter what! ! So try not to feel so alone. I loved your poem and I rate it a 10! ! !
The finish here, Theresa, is just so...apt, but also rather comical on the strength of the irony at play. This is my story as well, Theresa, a cold, empty bed to climb into each night. Thanks for telling it. I recommend you to check out 'Solitude' by Julia Klimenova as well. In fact, check out just about all the writing from this young lady 'cause she's super! ! Warm regards, Gina.