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.
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