The island of man...

They say no man is an island.

So why do I feel so alone,

In a city of 8 million?

I see plenty of faces,

And have several acquaintances,

Even some good friends to boot. 

But my daily endeavors,

Both sunshines and tremors,

To others often are moot. 

We each have our own lives;

Our own things to take care of. 

We each have our own dreams;

And futures to be aware of. 

So I live on my island,

And you in yours. 

Hunting and fishing,

Hustling and wishing. 

I walk the streets and see the faces:

Black, white, yellow, brown,

And all shades in between. 

But I don't know them;

And they don't know me. 

I go about my day mostly in silence.

Grinding my wheels,

Inducing thought,

Chasing dreams.

But always in secret

For I'm alone on my island.

Sometimes I find that my island is great,

Because I'm in control of the campfire.

Other times I find that my island is lonely,

Because smores for one isn't much fun. 

The time to myself also wears two faces.

One welcomes the retreat from my high-paced living. 

The other is energetic yet bored and verging on crazy. 

So I dance the line waiting for for others to visit. 

And while we might not actually be islands,

Completely isolated from our surroundings,

By effects of butterflies and physical groundings. 

We all know the isolation we harbor within.

That solitary experience on the island of man.