My mind's a haunted house some nights,
With flickering halls and nervous lights.
The floorboards creak though no one's there,
And fear sits brushing my hair.

A portrait whispers, "Don't go near."
A mirror says, "They know you're here."
I want to leave, but every room,
Invents a fresh dramatic doom.

Then morning comes with toast and socks,
With unpaid bills and cereal box.
The ghosts look smaller in the sun,
Like tired actors after fun.

I don't burn down the house I own.
I sweep, I breathe, I call it home.
The haunted parts are not my shame,
They're rooms that still deserve my name.