2 Poems that mention physical disconnection

This body has too many limbs,
And there’s no-where to put them
That much I know

As I sit on the bus waiting to get home
Waiting to arrive at a sanctuary
That I can’t bear to be in, because it’s never been shared
Strip lights glare above me,
And I can hear people laughing

I’m not really part of this,
It’s just a bad dream I’ll eventually wake up from.

I live from awkwardness
I live knowing that whatever happens
Whoever I’m with,
Something will never be right

I have no childhood best friend,
No potential best man, for my imaginary wedding
As much as tell myself:
“There is always hope
There is always possibilities of finding that little patch of earth
Where you’ll arrive and want to spend the rest of your life”
I still can’t help feeling bitter
Still can’t help feeling robbed of something worthwhile
Something that will allow my day
Experience, to be less mediocre
Less barren
And less angry

I know I’ll never finish these words
I know I’ll never stop searching for the right ones that will connect me to the rest of everbody
The rest of everything.

[b]Am I capable of love?
I don’t trust my body.
I am weary, somewhere deep down,
And it’s rising and eating me up.

I only hear the string arrangements when I watch films.
I no longer get excited when I go to gigs.
I haven’t cuddled in months.
I am one million miles away.

I often can’t get up in the morning.
There are no people I want to see in this town.
I don’t know if I am still capable of love.
I have disengaged.

I want to get married and have kids.
I have writers block.
I don’t know how to express myself.
I am twitchy.

I play air-drums.
I am not listening.
I am not interested.
I am not interesting.

I am lonely.
I want someone to look after me.
I want someone to tell me there’s nothing wrong with me.
I don’t want to be alone tonight (or tomorrow night, or the night after that).

I don’t want to go to gigs alone anymore.
I want someone to hear me sing (my own songs).
I am tired… deep, deep down… in my bones.
I can’t be who I want to be.

I hear everything as white noise.
I hear everything as white noise.
I hear everything as white noise.[/b]

I was gonna say(based on the presumption they`re your poems)

Highly [size=50](to the power of10)[/size]intelligent with a multifaceted creative streak a mile wide, and only 18 to boot!! None of the above comes as any surprise.

But you don`t claim them as yours. Are they?

They are mine. Thank you very very much!

#2 reminds me of my days pre-Mrs. There were not many of them and I do not miss them. Makes me appreciate what I have. Thank you.