Room

Look at this room, how disgusting it is; parts all strewn about in chaos. My comfort lies in its disarray. How we are each one big mess together. My comfort and embarrassing sheltering from pain signifies a struggle. My life is not clean, but up this room I better. The illusion doesn't count for much when I see this mess and feel at home. My claim to this space is fleeting at best. But the mess I make within it - that's all mine. I should clean it up? You want me gone... how sad. I better make it disappear before you ask. Maybe this is why my past and I cannot be close, why she cleans the house constantly and haunts me like a ghost. Follow me she will, fright me she must, hurt me she can't; her limbs are but dust. How sad the look of this space is now. I yearn for it to be my own and for love to ask for a share. I feel I'll never get either, and so into the deep night I shall hold close this mess, and hope the sleep keeps me in it well past noon so we can dance and create again under the sombre moonless dark skies.