My Room
Sorry, my room is totally disorganized:
There are more books of poetry
On the shelves than text books;
Crumpled ***** of paper containing
Unfinished poems jeering at me
Are lying here and there, along with
Some incomplete drawings and paintings
Of wingless birds, truncated trees,
Confused paths ending abruptly
Before reaching any destination;
Dried up brushes coated with colors,
Disheveled like my auburn hair...
Then, in a corner a dusty vase
Squirming with dried, crooked stems
Mourning the petals turned to dust...
And me, circled by an invisible cage
Which prevents me from touching the sky
Which calls me out like an yearning lover...
© Portia Burton
Dec 1, 2021
Dec 1, 2021 at 5:25 AM UTC
My Room
Sorry, my room is totally disorganized:
There are more books of poetry
On the shelves than text books;
Crumpled ***** of paper containing
Unfinished poems jeering at me
Are lying here and there, along with
Some incomplete drawings and paintings
Of wingless birds, truncated trees,
Confused paths ending abruptly
Before reaching any destination;
Dried up brushes coated with colors,
Disheveled like my auburn hair...
Then, in a corner a dusty vase
Squirming with dried, crooked stems
Mourning the petals turned to dust...
And me, circled by an invisible cage
Which prevents me from touching the sky
Which calls me out like an yearning lover...
© Portia Burton
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