Fri, 11/06/2015 - 18:55 -- MrRum8


My room is a photo album of the bricks that form the walls of my body,

Each a Kodak moment of my life.

The walls are painted gray,

Because one day not so long ago I learned how faded the line between black and white really were.

Spaces on my bookshelf are left empty,

Because I am afraid if they fill up so will my mind and I don’t want to stop learning.

Piles of instruments line the floor,

Most of which I cannot play, but love to hear, to feel.


I have three lamps.

Each giving me a new perspective as the shadows in my room twist and form figures.

Piles of books like towers looming over me.

The constant reminder that I will never get done reading,

Which isn’t a bad thing.

Each title a part of my past or future.

My life is made up of broken pencils and half-written sentences,

Holding me back.


Each word I write drags its self onto my walls,

Framing an image of my mind.

The pictures always tuning out blurry, but I don’t care.

I never cared,

Because one day the pictures will become clear…

…and I would have built myself into a grand castle.

Bricks to turn to gold,

As soon I enter my room.


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