My home is the earth,
It should be the sky,
I've dug myself down,
Instead of up high.
Becoming what shouldn't,
My soul is a mess,
I'm writing more poems,
Not getting dressed.
Hiding away in the place I call home,
It's not within bricks,
It's when I'm alone.  
But what do I do,
When I want to talk?
I listen to music,
Or go for a walk.
But all of these things,
They're all distractions,
I want to feel whole,
Not just as a fraction.
I want to get high,
And paint all the pictures,
Write all the words,
Not simply read fiction.
I want to live.