It’s dark in here; I cannot see,
The darkest self that has come to be,
Has put me in a prison which I’ve come to accept,
Where I can hear my own cries, but cannot see.
I look for windows in this black cell of mine,
They’re not there, his planning is fine,
But ‘his’ in this context confuses me,
For I cannot decide whether it is ‘his’ or ‘my’.
I want to escape, but I want to stay,
A feeling I’ve often felt a way,
But the grey in my mind slowly fades to black,
As I always give in anyway.
I see what he’s seen, I hear what he’s heard,
And he hears depression in the chirps of a bird,
Everything he knows now is black or white,
And a tinge of grey dominates his words.
It’s awfully dull in this prison of mine,
But I’m not one to complain or whine,
For I’ve long forgotten these vibrant hues,
Which once used to be the bliss of my mind.