I write poetry

behind closed doors
where no prying eye can see
secrets done in out of the way places
where no prying eye can see

doubts and fears cloud my mind
the me that I'd always hoped to be
but became just a hopeless dreamer
lost and locked away behind cement doors

with nary a notion to look away
from the screaming variations
of anguished faces
me, maybe I see me

in the morass of worn and odd shapes
keys on a ring
echoing, jangling in the hallowed halls
of the desolate hollowed paint peeling walls

where do I begin to discover me
where do I begin to recover me
where do I begin, where do I begin
to love me, to set me free