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...