There’s a skeleton in the closet, a monster beneath the mattress, and I stand a scarecrow unafraid of a box of matches, a little bit off my axis, crooked like every spinal column, my brain wears a skull and I’m still trying to find the problem. I’m autumn this season ‘cause I’m changing my mind too often and the reason is the ladder looks much taller from the bottom region. Always seeing demons in a place that reeks of God, because the author of your dreams is often sleeping on the job. It’s like the carpenter’s hands no longer recognize the hammer grip, and Jack-Be-Nimble wasn’t quick enough to dodge the candle stick, a metaphor for life’s abandonment of perfect balance, but I stand a scarecrow unafraid of a little challenge, like questioning an answer, ‘cause everyone has a Goliath, and David wouldn’t have made it if he waited and never tried it. Autopilot removal is crucial for every pigeon that dreamith of someday leaving the ashes to be a phoenix. But what if the zenith isn’t as scenic as you imagined it? And what if Alice’s rabbit was only a bad acid trip, with Mad Hatter laughter and caterpillar collaborative drudgery, all for just a mediocre cup of tea? That’s life ain’t it? Like you painted a self-portrait and then framed it, only to realize you hate the artist that made it.