mansion

There is a room in my abyss, lined with verses of my poetry.

I have to go there—it's where I sleep.

But if I begin to read them, I get lost in my own consciousness,

These walls—my blank expression,

My mind—a home I'm trapped in.

Scared of the truth, I live in disguise.

But what if I step out?

Would I still drown, or learn to rise?

These walls may own me, but I built them first.

Maybe it's time I rewrite this verse—

"I don't fix things, I just repaint."