The cracks.
The mends.
The stains.
The bumps.
Different colors.
Patterns.
Quotes.
Arts taped upon them.
I've studied these
four whining walls,
thought about what they
might've experienced.
Bloodshed.
Midnight endeavors.
The high.
The loss.
The gain.
Holed in here
for hours at a time,
for days, at a time,
your mind wanders.
In times of silence, just to hear
a noise,
so do your own
two hands.
In times of madness,
your voice echoes
even if its barely a whisper.
~Lani
YOU ARE READING
In My Mind ~ Poetry
PoetryA collection of poems from the locked box inside my head.
