Sharp sighs and the smell of coffee,
It filled the cold morning air
Of my small room in the apartment.
Grey filled the shadows of my face,
As I hugged myself on the spring bed.
I hadn't been feeling well that morning.
Maybe it was because the old woman
That lived beside me was smoking,
Slowly filling her apartment with tobacco
Instead of cats that meowed gently.
I didn't feel like going out.
Maybe it was because room 7 was open
And out came the strong figure of a man;
A man that'd left his children and wife
I was scared that I'd hear the sobs
Of his little young'uns and his wife
Again for the 5th time, and I'd break.
I didn't want to open my blinds.
Perhaps it was because my apartment was right across room 10,
Housed by a lone boy in his teens.
And maybe if I had open my blinds,
I might have seen his blue glassy eyes
That sobbed for the warmth of
The childhood he had missed and lost.
I swear I heard him howl last night.
I didn't even bother to dress up.
I knew I wasn't going anywhere,
Especially when it was room 5's time,
To remove her dainty mask and honour the drunken sailor's days
By cussing out her only child
And leaving scars in his heart
That no amount of candy would fix.
Don't get me started on room 1.
Oh, room 1, a poète maudit.
There she lays all day in her gown,
Sipping coffee and listening to bicker,
Scooping ideas to weep on paper.
Room 1 had problems of her own,
But she wouldn't dare to confront them.
Not today, at least, room 1 was tired.
Nonetheless, today, room 1 was very observant.
It was a strange small apartment.
It specialized in crazed sane people,
People that didn't grow up too well.
People that weren't quite broken,
But weren't quite fixed either.
They were often cracking under
The own weight of their sins and flaws
But they managed to wake up everyday
And maybe.. Just maybe think
"Today, I'm going to fix myself."
Maybe tomorrow, the old lady would decide to get a bit of fresh air.
Maybe next week, room 7's door will close shut again and ooze with love.
Maybe next month, the kid would've decided to make use of his mouth
And scream "I've had enough!"
He'd bring his mother to tears -
Because that's what she wanted;
For him to stand up for himself.
Maybe next year, the young teen would pick up his school bag and live his life.
Maybe a month after that year, the poet would've shared a masterpiece.
Maybe by then we'd all have lived better lives and left the apartment.
But today was not the day.
Today nobody had thought to fix themselves.
Today everybody clung to this strange place.
Sometimes we all just want to stay in a place where hurting is okay.