There are times in my life
I feel I have been excommunicated.
I write to what I suppose are friends,
but never get a reply.
I telephone with similar results,
which leaves me thinking
what the hell is wrong with me?
I recently started a personal book
called my letters to the departed
in which I write to late friends
whom would have answered me
if they had not passed away.
My life has become a sad affair
with only blank paper to talk to.
I’ve always been a quiet man,
reserved in many ways,
but I’ve always tried to raise
a smile on every face I meet.
Loneliness has been my partner
ever since I was very young,
but never have I found out why?
David Harris's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Excommunicated by David Harris )
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