God, I have spent my life hiding.
there are infinite verses
unwritten in this twisted, twisted mind
of goblins that creep in the night,
waiting with syringes in the shadows,
waiting until I fall asleep to inject me.
some of the verses are about my mind office.
it's not a palace or a house.
it's a office.
filled with filing cabinets
and a chair I never use,
and a couch in the corner,
crammed in by necessity.
there's a cold cup of coffee
sitting on the corner of the desk,
pooling in brown swirls.
there's feathers everywhere, too.
floating and drifting and tucked away.
a spiral staircase leads me to this office,
and when I write,
the only sound is the clacking of the typewriter keys.
its quiet, here.
when I want it to be.
its woven out of solitude, a need for something more.
familiarity dips into the shadows,
and the floor is boards of memories.
books litter the ceiling.
a noose hangs from above.