Other People: a poem about social overload

I can’t be with others
in a noise-gang which smothers;
their shouting and rage
would fill up this page
with cursing and ranting
with wheezing and panting
with foul-mouthed bluster;
a brain-dead cluster
of anger and sport –
no words of comfort.

Don’t mind them alone,
on the end of a phone,
if they use the right tone,
if they need a good moan –
I’ll listen, be there
as if I’ve no care,
for I don’t care a jot
that I have a lot
of angst and despairing.
I don’t need their caring.
Fears are for sharing –
but not mine
not this time;

I’ll find my own space
my individual place,
to deal with my pain
time and again.
In my own special way
I’ll have the last say
with a life that is marred
and a body that’s scarred.