Stained-Glass House

In my house I sneak around like a mouse
although I live alone in this stained-glass home.
Have to be quiet or I incite a riot
of the ghosts to which I play host.

Watching movies, I star, the part so gloomy
changing channels of motivation with my remote-control imagination.
Writing with ink pens to fill pages of sin
the paper is soaking wet with yesterday's regrets.

No recollection of my past connections
tied to my present by a fuse, the future is blurred, colorless hues
I light tomorrow on fire just to watch it expire
wipe away the ashes next year, a reason to face my fears...

The purifier doesn't clean air, it filters despair
blowing out cigarette smoke, the smog my loss of hope.
My ashtrays are filled with idols I've burned and killed
no heroes left to hear me sing, they've all gone deaf from my screams.

Life in a fish tank flooded with useless things
a salt-shaker filled with sleeping pills and ground-up Benadryl
a vacuum that only puts more past dusts on the floor
and a telephone on the wall that only bill collectors call.

This is the dungeon in which I reside
the doors come alive to stop me from going outside.
My only contact is the Internet and my cell phone
reaching out, attempting to convince myself that I
am not
alone...