My room was once a mess.

Jeans and plants and records and books and rubik’s cubes and pens and playing cards and instruments and journals and sneakers and poems and photos and sheet music and candles and


My head was once full of music.

Show tunes and operas and flutes and guitars and jazz and love songs and hate songs and blues and ballads and choirs and organs and drums and jingles and


My life was once summer.

Friendships and ice cream and sunshine and bonfires and family and concerts and daisies and romance and road trips and skateboards and laughter and


Now I am empty.

Silent and wistful and jealous and solemn and broken and burdened and hungry and cold and angry and hurt and forgotten and fearful and weak and


My room is still a mess.

- p. winter