My childhood was a lonely one,
sat dust-lunged in my room,
while others had fun,
I'd sit in the gloom.

Surrounded, with old books and toys,
football, at all, wasn't my thing.
Not 'one of the boys',
my own lonely king.

Ruled empires, of plastic and prose,
my imagination, sensational flights of ideas!
It actively rose,
along with my fears.

Oh! But if chance would be given,
to redo those days in new ways,
same way I'd live 'em,
in radiant haze.

You brighten up my day,
like a lightbulb does a moth.
You illuminate my way,
so I can gorge myself on cloth.
You know that it's to you I flew,
you like to play your games.
But if I get too close to you,
I tend to burst to flames.

My head is a haunted house,
filled with windy ghosts,
and skeletons that battle,
that will rattle,
in the closets,
like the chill upon my spine.
The basement filled with vampiric comments,
******* self-esteem,
as though they were starved of it.
A tower stands where I have crafted a monster,
from the old corpses of guilty thoughts.
The streaked mirrors on the walls reflect twisted visions,
folding my reflection heavy-handedly,
as if they were packing them in a hurry to leave.
Hell,
if I could run, I would too.

It's terrifying in here.