the perpetual outsider (Chris's first try at metaphorical drivel)

in darkness, i watch
shapes pass by, beyond recognition,
moving on, indifferent to the
presence of the perpetual outsider

i see faces from a distant place,
or maybe not so distant; i don't recall
but maybe it's no different
i wave; i'm invisible

sometimes i wonder what i'm doing here
why i haven't moved on, rather than along
with those others, that neither know me
nor are able to, let alone wish to

with some effort, i soar onward
but the path is of nobody's choosing
so many a time it leads to the meaningless,
but anywhere's better than here

then i see those distant faces again,
that depict the mutual joy of recognition
but i can only mourn at the inevitable
that they cannot accept my only gift

coming full circle, the descent is abrupt
my greatest toils come to nothing,
for no one sees, let alone cares about,
the perpetual outsider

Having had, for so long, nothing to write on an uninteresting life, I've decided to follow Glenn's idea of putting poetry and various writings into the journal.

The piece above is my first try at writing something that sounds vaguely vague, but it's nowhere near as abstract (or spontaneous, for that matter) as I want it to be. Its formlessness, though, is intentional.