Nothing in this house gets cured,
except paint,
and I’m so afraid it’s absurd,
my mental functions ain’t.

Except paint,
the only reprieve’s in lines of poetry.
My mental functions ain’t
what they used to be.

The only reprieve’s in lines of poetry.
I’m always revising
what they used to be,
open wounds I’m excising.

I’m always revising,
and I’m so afraid it’s absurd,
open wounds I’m excising,
nothing in this house gets cured.