I look at the four walls
That surround me.
Day in and day out.
They are all the same
Shade of tin.
Kind of like a box,
Where you buried your
Dreams for the future
And told yourself you
Would dig it up
Ten years later and see
How close you are.
The big difference between
That box and the one I currently
Reside in however, is the window.
A metaphorical one to be clear;
In that box buried in the ages
Was a window to a world
Where I meant something.
To myself mostly.
The important thing to take away
From this is that of all the dreams
You will ever have will never
Amount to anything
If you never step out of the box.

Roses defend themselves
With razor tipped thorns.
Keeping anyone who wishes
To hold them close at bay.
What a perfect metaphor.
I thought maybe I could handle
A little blood if it meant I could
Keep this beauty for myself.
But maybe I shouldn't
Have dived head first into the bush.
Roses are meant to be
Cherished at a distance.
I only wish I had
This epiphany sooner.

I remember going
To church on Sundays
With a hole in my stomach
Where god should be.

I try to live my life
Like a eulogy.
Every action I make
A part of a well-oiled machine.

My words the cogs
Slowly turning over
Your tongue like a symphony
Of memories stained into
Your frontal lobe.

Because on the bad days,
Knowing that I mattered
To you makes it harder
To sink any deeper

And if one day,
I unzip my veins in the bathtub
Or fly from the ceiling
And explode into chaos
On the concrete,
Know that you mattered.

At some point
I decided to unpack
That last box.
The one I told myself
To open only
When I found a place
To call home.

And I think that
It should have remained
Unopened because
Nowhere will ever really
Be my home.
This place was a saftey net
From my darkness.
But I guess Ill pack that box back up.