EUGENE (from the attic)

Sometimes,
when I get a break,
I think about the steps I take;
the misconceptions that others make
regarding me.

Somewhere
just below six feet,
melancholy but often sweet.
A quick-wit with most I meet
every day.
Always something to say every day.

Now I'm locked in this room.
Will Time make this my tomb?

Sometimes,
when I'm up late,
the mirror shows a face I hate
with no beauty to compensate
surrounding me.
Always some shadow surrounding me.

Now I'm locked in this mind.
Will Time ever be kind?