Paintings of dogs
On the wall
In the X-ray room
At the hospital
Where I go
Every week

I spread my wings
Looking left before turning the other way
This time I can make it

Jumping from the spot I perch on
Soaring across the ranges
Watching my shadow fly over the fields

Almost made it
Looking left and sighing
Once again I didn't make it

One last glance is thrown at the place I yearn for
My wings failing me as I plummet to the ground
My eyes opening only to see the familiar scenery of my room

One more failed attempt to get what I want

We dream
we want
the awards you take
We dream
we buy
the hypocrisy
We dream
we want
the new days you describe
in your speeches

The soap box betrays you

Twitter. Tweeting. Facebook. Facade.
Insta. Instant. Dopamine rush.

If you could separate your self from the stage,
that would be great.
-- but if you're going to make a political statement
while accepting an award for your humanity,
you might want to think about what your
individual actions tell the world about you.

Who will listen?
Who will ask?
Looks like money once more
takes the last laugh.

A broken record playing softly from the corner of the room on repeat
with no-longer-white sheets draped over rotting, forgotten furniture.
Thick drapes coated heavily in years of dust have kept the warm rays of sunlight from piercing the stale darkness that permeates the space.
There is no life here, no forgiveness;
only the wailing of the record as it hums its familiar tune, until finally it, too, ends.

You said I may as well
Be in jail
Because I spend
So long in my room.

I didn't go outside today
You said at least
Prisoners go outside
For fresh air once
A day.

Well sure,
I'll be a prisoner,
If you'd like.
I practically am.

This house is a prison
I'm monitored
Asked to work
Do this
Do that
If the things I do
Are "nothing" to you
Or not up to your standard
Of being worthy
Then I'm punished.

My room is my cell
It's my space
I've personalized it
I've made it mine
It feels safe
It's my choice
To spend time here.

But you still barge in
Even when the door's closed
You still demand things
You judge how I've made it
The way things look
The state its in
My own touches.
You prove it's not mine
By violating it.

Sure,
I could go outside.
But that's only
A larger
More diverse prison
Where I'm judged further
By the guards of society
I have to be alert
So I'm not abused
Or harassed
By fellow inmates.

Thanks for the metaphor,
Mother
But it doesn't matter.

I'm content
Being confined
In my cell.

l.v.s

lend me other rooms
leave my mind extending
willingly i take
but consciously i'm fading