Perhaps I should pick up a hammer
Insidious is internalized inception
What's real with all these questions?
Feels like I missed my alarm and slept in
Broken legs but I still chase affection
These walls are my blank expression
My mind is the home I'm trapped in
It's lonely inside an unfinished mansion
The sharp truth most people gaslight themselves and don't even realize it...
Have I detached so far from reality that my inner voice doesn't trust me?
Days go by while paralyzed in self-reflection
Empty walls don't reflect growth they echo stagnation...
If my mind is a prison am I both the inmate and the warden?
Isn't an unfinished house just a finished ruin?
Perhaps I should pick up a hammer?
And stop admiring the scaffolding as architecture.
Before every line, I've written is a eulogy for a life never lived...
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