This Hell Is My Home

It's insanity in here
The words of my poems are the manifestation
Of so many walls and windows and doors
The roof, the fixtures
They flow out of my head and bend and twist
Forming the furnishings for this asylum
They form the straps to my bed
I must grab onto the tail ends of them
And drag the thoughts like a pen on paper
So they can not be used to form this place
With its plates and glasses and knives
And dusty sunlight through the air
They build the locks on the exits
And bars over the glass
They trap me in with my books and stuff animals
Music and pictures and whys
This slow, dark eternity is time here
And the sun and moon creep around the corners
As they chase reality away and bring with them magic
But I stay in the shadows of doorways
And praticipate in the darker side of their wake
That ripples and destroys and erodes the sane
Instead of taking them to a happy mind escape
I sway to dark rythms through the hallways
Too chained in to notice others going my way
Here lives despair and sadness and loneliness
Here is the room of doubts and past hurts
There is no escape