I live in a prison within myself,
looking for new books upon my shelf.
I want to read some lines, never read before,
looking for new signs that I missed and more.
Was it just my vision that kept me in a blind,
or the hidden nuances that I could never find.
Why is that I yearn for the new unknown,
why is it that i like to get really blown.
Into little pieces that I sort every day,
from the distant corners of the gray.
I wish I could leave at my will,
my silent abode that is so still.
Haunting memories that I always kill,
with the help of a blessed sacred pill.
Leaving reality within it's lacy frill,
moving on to the domain of my thrill.