I

This square became

a refuge from too much.



Too much feeling

noise and energy.

Too much expectation.

Too much world.



Just a square.

White walls.

Barren but littered

with paintings and sketches,

scraps of ‘almosts’

crumpled into sad

little wrinkled trash.

Ideas thrown away



Only a laptop

sitting quietly,

coldly on a used

wooden desk as

any value.



Yet I wouldn’t give

this room to anyone.



From time to time

I am checked on

-questioned about-

eating, sleeping, bathing.

Human functions.

Though my expressions

make me closer to

a robot.



Don’t worry so much.

This is a self-imposed-

glorious-

isolation.



Until