His voice carries through
the pitch black halls.
Though the house’s asleep,
the walls start to speak.
Is it just my paranoia?
My dormhouse is like
a graveyard I reside in
and only greeted by the ghosts
of those who taunt me,
faces of my sleep paralysis.
And I knew he time would come
when he decides he hates me.
When he won’t speak to me.
I saw it all in writing
on the walls, a sick parable.
Daytimes demand that
I carry on as normal,
like I’m not cracked,
a basket casket case at disposal.
This foretold parapraxis.
Nightime arrives, lights on
but nobody’s home.
Just the walls talking,
there for the haunting,
my dormmates are paranormal.
Not a friend to call.
Adults won’t respond
to this 25-year old’s
perpetual teenage petulance.
Their maturity is a paragon.
And I can hear him talking.
I can hear them laughing.
I can hear you walking.
The walls must be speaking
as my mind’s paragliding.
So I’m here paralysed.
This place was paradise.
Now I’m stuck with these parasites.
He likes me, he hates me, he likes me.
He remains a paradox.
My madness is apparent.
Pushes me down the river.
His mendacity so transparent,
the walls can only snicker.
I can only sing to my blues,
forever ruined by my paramour.
