I was self-isolating long before the virus
barricading myself away from my latest crisis.
Voluntary lock down that’s how my life is,
friends they say bring riches but solitude is priceless.
So I perch precariously on my toilet paper throne,
ruler of all I see, yet all alone.
My pasta shapes crown barely conceals my frown
caused by the persistent ringing of my phone.
I hide behind a Facebook photo that I think makes me look slick
posting sarcastic comments while I’m binge watching Netflix.
But TV can’t teach this tired old dog any new tricks
think I’ll phone work again and lie that I’m sick.
Noting left to do but smoke a roll up and wait
contemplate learning to blow smoke rings while I self-isolate.
Trying to ignore my brain that’s locked in its usual eternal debate,
where self-respect gets its usual kicking from self-hate.
It’s time to lock all the doors, I don’t deserve to be free,
lock all the windows, swallow the key.
I’m nothing more than a mental health refugee,
adrift in his own turbulent sea.
Found dead one day clutching his pen
waiting for the fever of words that didn’t come.
So this poem is over
before it’s begun.