poem

I wake up in the night to the scary sounding fan,
I look around this room with the colors dull and bland,
I find it hard to sleep so I just lay there in bed,
my pillow resting firmly under my throbbing little head,
I look around the room only with my eyes,
my head not moving as if tangled with ties,
somehow I thought that would scare me,
obscured,
the more I look around I realize what all is mine,
because things that are mine can be not mine at times,
I look at my bedroom which is only filled with me,
my stuff, my books, my art, my clothes,
this is everything I would have chose,

I realized I better love everything I have than sorrow,

because, who knows? I might not have it tomorrow.

• Published January 25, 2020, 09:04
• in Anonymous
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