hell in poetry

Hell isn’t other people.

Hell is seeing other people only as
vehicles for or roadblocks against
your personal enjoyment.

Hell is being so hidebound to
your own damn self you’re utterly alone
you’re utterly in denial that loneliness
is why you’re motherfucking unhappy.

Hell isn’t other people, hell is you.

Hell is being alone and unchanging
in a vacuum of outside influence
never changing never growing just
stagnating into a singularity of
static loneliness and pain.

That’s hell.

Other people aren’t always heaven but
in the end you make the choice who to
make your own world out of and how to
interface with their magnetic pulls.
Sometimes it’s good.
Sometimes it’s bad.
Most of the time it’s both.

But hell?
Hell is only knowing yourself.