Inner Home

And my body begins to creak,
As an old house speaks.
Falling apart but not to ashes.
Walking to the window,
Heart beating too slow,
Looking at the cul-de-sac,
As a place where worlds crash.

But the street,
Starts looking like a trash heap.
Hot palms on a cold windowsill,
Everything is perfect,
And everything is still.
How much longer can I speak?
Until the acid eats my tongue,
Or will my will?

Moving back to where the fire started,
Leaving my heart in tatters,
As a brain cell shatters.
Another explosion across the grey matter,
Wooden panels texture amplified with nervous nerve chatter,
Talking about all what matters.

Whispers writhe with every sensation,
Making me feel like I'm anti-complacent.
Filling me with feelings of self decimation,
Moving me with a force beyond my transcendence.
Frigid door panels my warm hands push against,
leading into a space that holds me and my imprisonment.
And I won’t try to escape,
because I already know it’s far too late.