Out

It was winter when I started it's nearly summer now:
I've been out too long.
These words I seing are barely works of art,
But it's far too late for this to go wrong.

Should I relent and come out of my hole?
Threat of melencholy is always there.
I'll pull on my shoes and take a stroll,
The grass is always greener in the fresh air.

LET ME OUT!