Hell of our own making

inside a hell of my own making
sunlight outside,
I see the open door...
but somehow, I remain
inside the prison cell.
not bound by authority or sentence,
but by self-condemnation
and fear.
this has been my home for so long
these lies I believe,
these walls that I have built,
this has been my home for so long
that I do not know how to leave...
and I wonder, at times,
do I even want to?
or have I so acclimated to the darkness,
that I run away from the light?

open door,
still I remain
in the moldy, stark, dank
prison cell.

what is it that keeps you bound,
in a hell of your own making,
hiding from the Light...