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Alone
Sitting in the kitchen, silent
but for the steady hum of the fridge,
resting upon the chair: my back upon its back,
my arms resting on its arms.
Over-burdened counters sagging with packages
Unattended to, forgotten and left.
the voices in the background, fading in and out.
Doors slamming with a sense of finality.
The melancholy, yet melodious beeping of the machines
As they run through their simple cycles.
Besides this, the kitchen is silent, silent and sad.
As I sit on the hard chair, staring out into nothing.
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Given that I write while I am either angry or upset, most of my poems do tend to have a gloomy feel, and many of them are about being alone.