When routine becomes monotony. Doubt is served with berries at breakfast. Between slices of toast midday. And as a full meal at six. Who am I fooling.
What are walls for. To keep me safe inside. To lure me into the beyond. Are they there to go through. Or so I can bounce off them. The persona or the person.
I wake up to a room getting smaller. And decorate walls that are bare. By dusk there’s no white space left. And the walls face outward. Where did the day go.
All This By Hand
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