In this house in which I have never stayed
I am surrounded by my possessions
Each in their time my current obsessions
The focus I gave them I may have prayed
With the toys and objects with which I played
Imagination was my profession
The quelling of my lonely confession
The experience of which I am made.
I found my own company hard to keep
Little chance to discuss anything real
Began to repress, refusing to weep
Finding I have forgotten how to feel
And in this house I cannot be contained
Yet for a time, I know I must remain.
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