My Isolated Island By Boele Loonstra

I stand before them,

them who I’m most comfortable with,

them who make me feel like I can’t do wrong.

I know anything is fine:.

My feelings, my interests,

or just the regular things we laugh and forget about and soon forget.

But I fail to speak.

Everything I say is like a cry for help.

I try to play the piano

that once felt like a part of my body,.

My fingertips finding the keys

like a child finding its mother’s arms

when thunder strikes.

This time, like so often nowadays,

the same notes cannot formseem unable to create a melody.

Feeling flows out of my body,

but the same energy does not return,

leaving me hollow andhallowempty and exhausted.

So I stand, and wait for them

to lifttake the burden off my back.

When my wish is not granted,

I reverse the orderreverse order.

I’m just tired, I’ve been tired

It does non’t do justice to the situation,

nor to me,

 nor to them.

It’s my easy escape, but it doesn’t last.

Not when I realize I, yet again, lost precious time.

Because the ones I fail to open up to,

those are the ones I miss,

the ones I try to pull back to me

while they drift away,

sailing into the open world,

driven by the wind I unwillingly blow into their sails.

Away from my isolated island.