The Stranger

So often we find ourselves trapped in a cycle of despair: unceasing, never-ending. This poem explores his feelings as a stranger who is completely oblivious to life and its vicissitudes.

          A stranger in my own home!           

                                                The walls are hollow                                                  they no longer speak of a once great drama:

blood, toil, tears, sweat.

The stratosphere is vacant 

it is obtrusively blind to my trials and tribulations.

The undercurrent of chatter unsettles the impulses.

                 Interspersed noises echo in the distance                 

inadvertently lavishing with superficial praise:       

silent daggers, despondent voices.

It is empty.

It is no longer home.

Reviews

[Relic]

I'd like to see you be a little more specific in these lines:

The undercurrent of chatter unsettles the impulses.
Interspersed noises echo in the distance
inadvertently lavishing with superficial praise:
silent daggers, despondent voices.

I can see the depression and despair in this. As though you're in a place that's foreign and isolated with no hope. That's a sad place to be. The loneliness it brings weighs heavy on the heart and mind.