When I’m not writing, I’m lonely.
When I’m writing,
I feel I am among friends, or soon will be.
Poets, authors, play writers, song writers;
they are all there waiting to share my words, my thoughts, my ideas.
And, sometimes they write back with their views and comments.
Sometimes they don’t.
And I wait.
And feeling lonely again, I write.
It’s a strange world I live in.
It is of my own making, of course.
Not sure how I got here, living in a one bed room condo;
Unit 404, Barcelona Manor. Lots of condos in this complex.
Haven’t met any neighbors, yet, but I really haven’t tried.
I’m fairly likeable; at least I think I am, although I seldom go out.
Most of my time is spent at my desk, looking at my computer,
waiting for a response from one of my writes.
Sometimes I get published and sometimes I get a check in the mail.
Usually it is only for a dollar or so.
One time it was a check for fifty cents.
Poets don’t get paid very much, and seldom get published.
My mom and dad paid for the condo.
They said it was best I live here and not in their home.
Don’t know why they feel that way, but they do.
There is an Eeegee’s and Swensen’s across the street,
but I seldom eat out.
Takes too much time and I’m away from my computer.
Don’t like that.
Have you ever signed up with e-harmony?
I’ve thought about that, but I don’t have much to say about myself.
When I get my book published, and it will be finished soon,
then I might sign up and will have something of interest to say.
Not that I will brag, or anything.
Hmm, incoming email on my computer.
I’ll be right back.
Oh, it was a rejection notice from The Washington Post.
They don’t take poems.
I’m going to send this write out by blind copy.
Then I will wait.
If I get lonely, I’ll write some more.
Might even work on the book I’m going to publish.