At first it may seem a little odd,
looking in from the outside.
The furniture is all out of place,
the walls cracked; the curtains torn.
The carpets worn where paranoid feet pace.
I'm a room mostly empty,
some books for company
and a computer monitor
to showcase the insanity.
Looking in from the outside
may seem a bit weird,
sofa - dog eared.
Words all over the walls.
Each internal voice
given a surface of its own to scrawl.
Each segment of my brain
another room in which to crawl.
Every memory,
another set of drawers.
Every single song lyric,
stitched into the fabric that sticks in mind,
the very essence of the place you find.
The roof sometimes thatched,
other times a brown slate tile
with a chimney on top.
At the moment it's on fire.
Seems the flames won't stop
but in time the weather
will douse the burning.
The garden always varies,
on good days it will be green,
pretty flowers with a little fence.
But on bad, it will have barbed wire
and signs that may cause offense.
It doesn't always have to make sense.
The ceiling can be on the ground,
furnishings turned the wrong way around.
The doors don't always lead anywhere,
just back to the same four walls
at which you constantly stare.
But it's me
in every brick,
every cement smear.
Every window that looks,
not outside,
but back in again..
It's me, just a house standing here.
Not quite anything
that anyone would want me to be, I fear.
Looking in from the outside
can seem a little odd,
but looking out from the inside
makes me sad.
None of it makes sense.
Twisted and impossible,
impassable rooms,
impassioned
by the brutal prison's
non symmetrical tombs.
Thanks for reading
please check out my new book "In Shadows"
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