The Blankspace Poem by Quel Saige

it's a very dangerous place to be
when all you can hear is the sound
of your own voice

and the violin drones in the background
playing mute to the tune
of your own blank canvas

and the box of the sound of you
gets smaller
and the white bleak spaceless noise
gets louder

until there's nothing
but you collapsed in on you
(which is collapsed on you in turn)
and you find yourself
in the comfortable
straightjacket grip
of your own custom, self-designed,
iron maiden
(that is, your mind)