this room is sad
drab
empty and unloved
i think
stupid, useless
aren't exactly the words i would use to describe myself
but you can see signs of wear and tear
recklessness in every corner of my room

incompetent, incapable;
here's the pencil, now make it work
except i've never been taught how to hold a pencil
i suppose that's the type of thing you should know
hold a pencil
and just
write

but the life has been beaten out of me
out of my hand
by poems i'm told i should appreciate
by blanks left in the sky
which beg to be filled in by me
what do i know?
about skies, about poems

i'd love it if i knew what my own room looked like
but lately i've been turning off the lights
only turning them back on in small corners
where i need to see pieces of my poems
i'm not so completely lost,
but then again, i am
ask me where i keep my clothes,
where my books are

the books i'd once known like the back of my hand
mean nothing to me in the dark
my hand means nothing to me in the dark
i may as well be the stuffy air
floating aimlessly

i swear, everyone else has soft nightlights
elaborate chandeliers that cast beautiful shadows across the floors

i know i am standing on the floor,
that i am sitting on the floor,
and those very same floors trap me in;
so i know no more than the floors.