Crazy

People think I'm crazy,
and that I have no one to hold.
That I have no home.
They're wrong.

My home is this white room,
where I have seen many a color no one else can see.

I'm not crazy,
just mentally inconvenienced I might seem,
but I keep hope in this little room.

And I hold someone always.
My own withered self,
holding in my own little soul.
Even if I weren't in this tight coat,
I'd choose to hold myself constantly.

Oh.wait,
maybe I am crazy.