My Only Secret Poem by James McLain

The room, pitch black and dark it always is.
The box was never woody warm but always winter cold.
Some thing makes me itch, I know it, know it not,
it is what I'm scratching, scratch, I scratched.
The warm hand that is not mine I squeeze and I grow bold.
Inside my ear their is this ringing that I can't forget
The darkness is a living breathing dying dusty womb.
Upon it's bed I lay I pay the price and O it's size.
Every shadow that I see it takes my breadth away,
and my breathings is of what is there I feel it now.
On my stomach out the window as I push I look outside.
The moon is full the curtains open then she screams at me.
It's nothing mom I yell and run away.