The art of Poesy

guest

Uhtceare; thirty one

Most of the times,
I feel like a guest in my own mind.
Who sits in the couch with a cup of espresso,
The couch was full of scratch
as if it was played by some naughty cats,
While the coffee has a bitter taste
as if it was mixed with painful emotions.

But I remembered,
There's no cats wandering around,
There's no brewed coffee in the kitchen.
Was it me?

I wanna laugh at myself
But laughing is really tiring
and pretending is pretty exhausting.

Most of the times,
I want to walkaway,
away from my darkest thoughts
and chaotic mind.
But how?
I am not a guest.