In the House of Solitude

in this ratty old shack with peeling paint,

a heavy door that complains every damn time,

I found a voice, or maybe it found me.

didn't need no one, just a bottle and some smokes,

the soothing hum of my own damn thoughts,

drowning in them, bathing in them,

like a king in his lousy broken tub.

the place, hell, call it a sanctuary if you want,

a refuge from the shriek and spit of the streets,

word by word they stumble out,

half-drunk and looking for trouble.

that pond outside, sometimes it's like a mirror,

shows me the face of a man who's seen too much,

yet I sit and watch, the sun flicking glints like dimes,

cheap change for my cheap thoughts.

years, goddammit, years spilling ink and blood

across these stained and stubborn pages,

a symphony of curses and sighs,

each line a victory or a new scar to poke at.

ain't about finding solitude, it's about the fight,

wrestling the world to the ground, gagging its mouth,

huddling with the shadows that know me by name,

building my own padded cell to keep the chaos at bay.

now here, with my words, my demons, my drink,

I can breathe deep, stretch these old bones,

in this house I've spun from silence and night,

I do what I was carved out to do.

and the words, they come, clumsy and raw,

tumbling like runaway kids down a hill,

these tales like blood veins on the page,

in the house of solitude, the only place I belong.