who knows?

Never wrote by hand, trembling with disease.
Stapled all my limbs to rotten furniture.
The pictures in my head keep me awake.
The lack of context keeps me hidden.
Like a chameleon, looking for the next place to blend
in silence.
where do you keep me?
what will you find?
Maybe only a smile in my face
and an invitation to step in for some tea
or a walk in the park.