poem
By Anonymous
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
- is not continuable by others
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