When you look up at the ceiling,
As you lay in your bed,
What is it that you see?
Do you see the cracked and peeling paint,
The water damage stains,
The tarnishes of time and neglect?
What is it that you see as you stare upon your ceiling?
It has been days since your gaze left the above.
What are you looking for?
Are you looking for that one little area,
That is still pure in its color?
That is free of spoil and coated in care?
You lay there, motionless, staring.
Searching, in your own creation,
Agonizingly probing your aged canvas,
In fear that that's all you'll ever see.
Ever know.
But you search, and you search,
You scan every inch of that ceiling,
In hopes of a small, blank slate of plaster,
In which to smother yourself in.
In which to call home.
_

'10