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I'm an open book here, and I have a lot to say, so I'll just say it.

Monday, October 1, 2012

Panic Doesn't Speak, it Only Paints a Nightmare.

My room at the end of the hall-
painted blue and green
and with starry night dreams.

I sat at the desk in the corner,
and tried to dream of a future,
the still framed picture
which is no longer framed.

I was hidden away, stowed away
in my room at the end of the hall,
and the bed by the door never did
comfort me.

I want to destroy those walls
and rip them down
in a bare handed breakdown,
because a new coat of paint
isn't enough to remove the memory.

My room at the end of the hall,
is it still even a safe place at all?