My Head Is My House

It's been a month since I got out of my house

I miss that bench I used to sit on after my games

I miss the chirping birds,

Whose sound in the mornings I used to hate.

I miss the gnarly trees in my path,

That kept me going under the sun in my wrecked state.

I miss my impatient friend 

Outside my house, who always used to wait.

I miss the uber, the ola

The places they used to take.

I miss the blunts, the fattys

The crews that often used to bake.

Its been a month since I got out of my house

When I come to think of it,

I now realize all the mess that was made.

In a world full of order which seemed so much fun

This sudden deafening silence

Seems like it was one obnoxious simulation.

A feeling that our civilization just entered its state

Of conscious and unconscious connection.

That all the pettiness of rich and poor

Doesn't matter when their head is held against a gun.

We have to think of it this way

Maybe we just hit the ball, this time for home run.

So maybe take a walk from your study to your hall

Enter your mind, deal with your monsters 

Or just break the wall.

There will be metaphoric trenches and ditches 

In them, you may fall

It's very important to meet your other side

Just this time

You may miss the birds, the trees or your friends call.

Its been a month since I got out of my house

I have been inside my house, inside my head

As if my head is my house and my house is my head.