Tiny Me

Hiding deep inside my mind, lives my tiny me
Tiny lives in tiny house inside my brain you see

Tiny’s house has tiny door, window but no view
All he sees is curly brain, spongy grey in hue

But Tiny has a vital task, does it every day
He keeps me from the scary facts, he locks them all away

He has a box of mom, he has a box of dad
Not every thought about them, just ones that are bad

He has a box of lost fist fights, and stickings of the pins
He has a box of old dog bites, and banging of the shins

Another box holds Grandpa’s death, brought on by heart attack
Another holds stood up dates named Beth, and failure in the sack

But his biggest blackest box of all, sits high upon the shelf
Even Tiny won’t say what’s inside—can’t deal with it himself

When I get too close to what’s boxed, Tiny let’s out piercing squeal
And tells me now don’t be shocked, what’s in the box ain’t real

Tiny whispers really close—there’s really nothing inside
And tells me stories grandiose, building up my shattered pride

As Tiny lulls my mind to sleep, with stories even greater
I don’t have to think about the keep, not now maybe later

So I go through life pretending to be, greater than I am
Disabled to the truth you see, I’m a deeply wounded man