I am not alone in torture, but I am alone in mine

Solitude, for me, is pain. I spend tremendous amounts of time without human contact, but I am never truly alone. My usual companions are Legion. It would be easy for me to assert that schizophrenia did all the damage, but I can hold my brain chemistry responsible only so much. The truth of the matter is that I have never been well-socialized. I've always been a bit of a sad loner; when madness struck, I was already leaving the world most of you take for granted. I could blame the punchers and the lashers, but in the end, it was me. I didn't bother explaining myself to anyone; I thought no one would care. In the end, I still believe that to be true. It's very easy to make a monster out of my visions, voices, and phantom scents, but I have always known this sad, melancholy shadow of a memory to be my monstrous side. I never needed help to share the gregarious jackass so easily identified with me. I need to share the vulnerable parts: the poet, the thinker, the clingy paincushion. Living this way is tearing me apart. Every time I think I've found a way to speak freely or a place where my true voice is welcome, I always end up quarantined further and further into myself. People buckle and run under the extreme sheer weight of my sadness; I grab ahold of what I can, but that never helps. Of course, my disease mangles and rearranges these memories, but the proof of their general validity remains: I am always away from others. I offer myself freely to be understood in the lines of my poetry, but the totality of the verses, once read, is to usher others away from my sadness. It's all quite pointless, but I retain my quixotic quest. I will not be silent, even if I am never heard.

THE MATADOR OF FEARS

I am a matador of fears
for thirty years
or thirty seconds
hope will be my sword
I fight my fear of love
for peace
for vengeance
for you
for me
but not hope
hope is my sword
with mercy dispensed at its tip
I wish the same for myself
But when none is forthcoming
I wait
At the tip of hope
On the neck of desire,
Cursing beneath my breath
Because there is no ring, no bull, and no crowd
I'm alone with my demons
And they don't sleep.