The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?