Out of My Mind

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,

stagnant liquid

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.



The End

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