Within my Muse’s back bedroom there stands a bed and chair,

A table and a lampstand – paper scattered everywhere.

And in the darkest corner, so as to be no eyesore,

There looms the shadowed outline of my Muse’s closet door.

Behind that door, wrapped up in night, fester my old regrets,

My pains, sorrows, bitternesses – that’s where it all collects.

So when, at night, my Muse unlocks and opens wide that door,

The messes of my twisted mind spill out across the floor.

The sticks and stones that broke my bones, the beasts that claw my heart,

The shards of unforgotten wrongs – each sharp and shattered part

Pour out to rage around the room, filling the air with screams,

Filling my Muse with bitterness that blights the brightest dreams.

And there, at night, in that back room, my Muse sits down to write

The rages, terrors, sorrows of my closet’s hidden night.

But ‘fore the sun rises, the beasts and sticks and shards and stones,

Are herded back into the dark with low and frightened moans.

For never could my Muse allow the waking world to see

This inner room of demons dance – the Hell hidden in me.

What terror would my family have, my friends, acquaintances,

If I opened the closet door to show my madnessess?

No, little door with darkened face all streak by blood and ink,

I will not ope’ you to the world, nor show them what I think.