The Room

I sit here and type in the darkened room. Just the glow of the lights that drape the walls allow me to see. I can hear everything in the room and see everything from the position I sit. The fan two my immediate left blows the cool breeze from the crisp spring night through the grated window. It hits me in a gentle way like a wet towel that wipes away sweat from a hot day. As I continue the music I listen to calms me and I type with the beat. Instruments and lyrics flow through the skinny white cord to my ears, into my brain, back down through the rest of my body, and comes out at my finger tips. My feet tap slightly against the soft polka dot comforter that is below me. So many cold nights it has kept my toes warm. Spread out across my bed are books but not the kind I want to read for fun. Texts books that are, although full of useful notes and techniques, dry to the core like a dried shriveled up apricot that has sat in the sun for days on end. I prefer books of language and literature. My crate underneath the desk next to my bed contains a few of my favorites and a few I have not gotten the chance to read yet. This room is very cozy and I am surrounded my good friends with whom I have shared very fun times, but it is not home. 

This poem is about: 
Me
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