In the attic

You can’t explain your feelings.
Words will never exist
for only one person to understand.
Even so, this feeling of entrapment
in one's own mind
simply cannot be exclusive to only you.
There must be a way to describe it.
There must be some hidden clue;

a piece of paper with smearing ink
a ceramic pot broken in asymmetrical shapes
a flattened penny- you can make out only the date
a dusty mirror cracked in seventeen spiraling webs

If you have not yourself:

nothing.