Panicking at the very thought of human interaction,

Languishing in lonesome, while longing for infatuation.

Labyrinthine quarters of my soul are screaming for help,

Wretched humanity has contempt.

Gone are the days of innocent confabulations,

Everyone's always looking for hidden intentions.

Scared all the time of fatuous concerns,

To live with it, slowly, one learns.

Incredulously confident in being alone,

Expectedly suspicious of the contrary.

Credence is at present a rarity,

Incongruously miserable in being alone.

Has this suspicion of people been enshrined in me,

Or am I just suffering from crippling anxiety?


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