My "Sanctuary"
It's where I dream
the place where I write,
a bare light bulb handing from the ceiling.
Wooden floor, covered in dust,
some crumbled papers, left forgotten.
I manage to deal with it.
If I didn't have this place
I think i'd slowly go insane, but I won't.
It must remain here, hidden.
My mind can't stand it.
My heart tries to avoid it.
My pen...absolutely needs it.
I hate the noise, why would I need it?
I don't think anyone would want to be in this place.
Then the hour comes,
the clock strikes midnight, up to my
“sanctuary”
I go.
“The floorboards are creaking again.” I say to myself.
After a couple hours, I come down,
my papers all written on.
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