stories from a bedroom...

if i were a room my wall paper would be peeling at the corners
if i were a book my pages would be water marked and torn
if i were a bed i would uncomfortable and awkward.
if i were a door i would creak and moan from to many pushed years

if feel as if im stuck in a room with wall paper peeling away at the corners. slowly flaking away. slowly falling apart. as if my story is stained and hollow. i feel so hollow. and true how does one feel hollow? once i find the words ill explain it to you. but alas these words are all i have and they too are hollow. fine black ink upon water marked, tear stained pages of my life. the smell of cheap paper and pungent utterly hopless scent of ink. ink that could be blood. dripping away upon the paper of my life. and how i always feel ever so uncomfortable. ive made the bed i must lie in. and how this bed is? to many years of use. now abandoned and useless. torn and broken sharp springs jolting you at every turn. how you long for a night sleep yet know its not possible. but if i were a door. alas if mine eyes were a door to my soul... this tortured broken door creaking at every slight breathe. a whisp of wind a slight movement and the creaking moaning tortured door, pushed far beyond the years creaks ever so much more. this poor broken door longing to be fixed to be mended. alas no one is here to fix this door.
and alas these poor poor eyes. in which have seen so much and not enough. will they never be wanted? will no one look into these eyes and see the pain hiding behind them? will no one see the rented smile upon my face? i borrow smiles from you so you believe that im am happy. i smile only so you smile. i laugh so you can laugh. for its never about these broken souls. these broken doors, opening the passage to another more simple life. its always about others.

but in being about others will it in turn be about me? ive decided no. it cant be about me. someone must be stupid for others to be smart. someone must be lazy for others to work. someone must be sad for others to be happy. someone must die for others to live. ive come to accept that its not about i. nor about so many others in which we too will learn to live these lives. as those who watch what goes on around us. we try to fix things and yet always fail. i am but four walls. i hold up what i can but in the end i too will perish. i too, will be destroyed by weather. or people. the more needy. and as a bedroom i will protect you from these but in the end. when i am worn
when my wall paper is peeling or pages are tearing or bed is poking or doors are moaning. someone somewhere will find a better use to destroy me. to build a better room. a better person who will be stronger. more sufficent.
as if one were suffocating yet still breathing. as if one were drowning yet dry.
as if one were dying. yet...
still wakes up everyday longing for a little more.
not given this privlidge.
yearning for something.
yet how do you yearn or want something when you yourself dont know what it is?


i asked someone today why do people feel the need to have a boyfriend or girlfriend or someone or something to make them feel complete?

they replied. people are just like that. it is normal to feel you need something to complete you.

i asked someone today what if you dont want to have someone or something to complete you?

they replied. i would call that wise.





i sure dont feel wise.
and yet i dont feel complete.


somehow... i feel nothing.














but alas if i were to compare what i feel to something.

it would resemble,
wall paper peeling off a wall.