No one hears me recite.
What I write.
Except these four walls.
The creepy crawlies.
Midnight.
And the moon.

I don't exhibit.
In an institution.
The art is in.
The performance.
Of.
Trying to be.
A normal person.

Failing horribly.
Making it up as I go.
Worded poorly.
Nothing profound.

This is my ode to the empty places.
Darkened and foreboding.
Where I can be myself.
Dancing alone.
In the dim dark dusk.

The light doesn't shine out of me.
It leaks out of cracks in the facade.
It cascades out of me in moments.
I cry for no reason.

My poorly written lyrics.
To songs I never sing.