hikikomori
the disease disappears yet
the isolation remains as the gorilla
a small room where it rips my face
as I wash it in the morning
rinsing the little dirt from the White cloth
the brain drys from the inside
or is it the new pill that grows teeth
yes teeth growing in my head
that chew up words more like
old strings of chicken removed
there seems no reason to leave
no one knows me here like old friends
Who never visit from miles away
phone calls useless chat in the dark
here we are behind closed doors
brothers of the dirty carpets
disappearing bags of food
that never nourish the tears that fall
onto a useless moment never ending
below our surface we starve for arms
hold on for the door knock
from someone never wished
to be seen in rude trances
up the ramp answer the door
never again it's only rice and salt
Barry G. Wick
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