my brain is the empty attic of a mid 20th century two story owned by a sub par poet

its walls are covered with layers of paint, wall paper, and dust

the floor overflowing with crumpled ***** of paper

its door reduced to nothing but scratches and patches

the floor boards curl up from years of climate changes and leaky roofs

and its rafters squeak and whistle every time the wind blows.

my brain is the empty attic of a mid 20th century two story owned by a sub par poet.

sad, bored, and lonely.