Untitled3

I’m feeling very stuck inside this strangely crafted box.
The walls are closing in on me,
The only door is locked.
And though the window’s open wide,
I fear that I would not survive,
If I should fall out from inside,
And take the long three story dive.
So I lie here shivering on the floor and rolling madly ‘round,
Then wrapped in warming, sleeping sheets, I wait, wanting, ‘till I’m found.
But wait, I know! I’ll throw a bottle out the window,
One that holds a scribbled note!
A scrap of paper rolled up tight,
And words that have been spell checked twice,
That’s scrawled with smudges, bleeding ink,
And words I wrote, or so I think.
Words that though I know I wrote them,
Were not written by my hands.
For something else had held the pen,
And another held the pad.
They are those things that scribble notes and spin fantastic stories,
Entangling me within themselves,
To slow my going mad.
But writing notes and throwing bottles out, from up three stories high,
Will never truly be enough,
To escape this strangely crafted box,
With its door locked from inside.