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"Over there
Witness all the rooms you rent,
Moments, Memories,
all the pieces of heart
gifted by lovers or strangers"
said The Cherub.
"My arrows choose which you will cherrish."

"While we lay entangled here,
Having consumed one another.
Do you wonder if we will cherrish this?"
said The Archer.

"Would you like to come even closer
And discover the answer? "
replied The Cherub.

"Every memory I've choosen to cherrish,
Has Shattered"
says The Archer.

"Well of course it did,
You tried to choose.
We cannot choose
which memories we will cherrish.
We may only pull
faith From quiver.
Give in to potential
without intention.
Close your eyes.
Empty all your senses
Until the only sense you have is Trust
I'll fill those empty spaces,
can you feel me?"

"Yes, you are close."

"You have my quiver now.
We still have no control over whether
We will cherrish this moment.
Put your faith in this bow.
Draw back our arrow
Trust it's natural path.
Close our eyes.
Forget this room.
Volley the whole tower"
Originally Written as The Title/Description of My Paper sculpture of the same name:
You can VIEW THAT PAPER SCULPTURE HERE:
https://www.instagram.com/p/BQ8_LYYF-3H/

~
~
i
don't
know how
i'm being
screamed at by silence.
i don't know what these rooms are for-
filled with ghosts and curtains that will never stop haunting.
i watch these stacked rooms from afar as we drive home. a wraith whispers light into their ears.
ahmo Jul 2016
i.
pictures hung so abundantly like there was a ponytail for every assorted alcoholic beverage that would go down while you sat on the counter top with grey in your eyes
or on my lap like lavender gloves. i bought flour and red velvet as atonement, but hollow words are as indicative of unfaithfulness as your eyelashes were indicative of my heartbeat speeding up like your raggedy red Taurus on the Pike and slowing down like our souls in self-reflection, co-morbidly.

ii.
i clip to cold like frozen gnomes but the room with fire was bellowing through the chimney in your irises. it was the ceiling i was the most comfortable collapsing under. Merlot, you are a peach and almost all of the sun that our brains can ultravioletly receive. There is no where to run to when logs and THC are crackling while you let my try on your scarves and you rub my arm horizontally like there was no famine or *** trafficking in the world. The rabbit is always right and Dewey loved the hay and telling us that we belong together. there was no time to guess the right combination of psych meds and there was certainly no one there to close the sliding glass door.

we'd unzip and kiss in a mist of dampened television volume while everyone was asleep. i fell into you, first in billions of separate-cardboard puzzle pieces and then all at once like oblivion within a climate-controlled stadium.


iii.
i noted the same pictures in this room and how your ponytails ended all existing threats to human suffering.

iv.
i loved the dark and the stars and the soupy-vacuum, pulling us in and spitting us out like a bitter mango.
there was never any water in your pool to turn green and so the unfilled concrete was an ocean to our symmetrical lawn-chair thrones, radiating green jeans and the hazel-stained dream-scene.

we lost what vision was real and what was a dream. this was a gift beyond any explanation or expectation. yet, you wouldn't let me remove all of the shrapnel and funnel antibiotics with my barren fingertips onto your scalp.

v.
here, there was kin-
the only room in which your skin didn't show me a piece of you,
but your words did.
there's a way that all of our lives collide like a supernova and our explosion felt more like a hundred-decade erosion,
giving and taking from each other like a sea-side boulder and the tide.


vi.**
you finally showed me the flesh you were ashamed to show the couch, your bed for two in Easthampton, mac & cheese without almond milk, the top of Wachusett, the pit of a pizza dish, the sink of the swooning stitches, the empty pool, the movie theater, your fake bras, and
everything else that supported us like an apparition that wouldn't return my favorite t-shirts.

and i was in.

my fingernails were there. every hair i touched while panic deducted consciousness in some scarce granting of a wish was another prarie for me to grow corn and flowers and ecstasy within. every single crop died but i never forget how self-loathing turned into a comforting sleep. we ran from consciousness like a runaway train but you were always on my back, whispering that solidarity was a the solution to a world that values prosperity over pragmatic humanity.

all the tears and dreams that danced like the branches in the frigid, unforgiving winter were dried up like a creek that i lost consciousness in when you shut the door.

these spaces exist in purgatory because i don't remember my dreams anymore and nothing really ever means anything,
like biting off my fingers in all of these rooms that are left with only memories of you.
b e mccomb Jul 2016
I'm just a girl
Lying on back road pavement
A girl with cold fingers
And pink hair.

Read my walls.

I stay up all night
Writing papers I hate and
I hold what hurts
Tight inside wooly blankets.

Read my walls.

I'm just a girl
A face in a shiny restaurant
An icon on your screen
A flannel-denim conversation.

Read my walls.

Read my walls, every crack around
The edge of the molding, the way the
Bumps cast their shadows, every chip in
The paint, every scratch, every letter.

Read my walls.

We all want love, we all
Want recognition and I'm not
Worth half of what anyone has
To give.

But please
Read my walls.
Copyright 10/18/15 by B. E. McComb
Cat Fiske May 2016
I wake in a rusted copper red stained bed,
and focus my gaze though the window ahead,
to see the sun rise in a  crimson, flame, flush, shade of glow,
the view reflected in my eyes seem burnt, but cold and slow,
I see rose red flowers in the meadow,
and the shine of a rainbow,
the sea of dark pastels in a strawberry sky,
the cardinals fly,
and as I change my sight to the inside,
the fluttering spotted ladybug try to hide,
I get up and walk across the maroon hard wood floor,
until my feet finally reach the bathroom door,
and I reach a sad sight inside the white room,
the seen is diluted and blank to the view,
I raise my body in fists of hateful recklessness,
and crash my ****** fists into the mirror in elegance,
and helplessly the glass reflections fall to the floor,
and cuts me until my blood flows to the door,
the spotted ladybug hiding on the ground,
couldn't escape the fateful death as it drowned,
and I collapsed next to the bug,
and soaked my skin into the ****** rug.
and I waked to find a sea of vermilion,
acting like a chameleon,
as it laid in pools across my pale bare floors,
as something to large like a corps to ignore.
Vermilion red in my eyes,
Vermilion red stuck in my mind,
Vermilion red lives until I leave for the sky.
Jasmine Moreno Mar 2016
Always having a different type of view,
The type of thoughts that differentiate me from you.
Always had dreams I've wanted to pursue, know there's more to help the people we can do.
So many people getting abused,
The pain and struggle locked in our "strange" rooms.
Lingering the feeling that all has been doomed,
Remember the media's view is the truth misconstrued.
Mike Essig Apr 2015
No matter the decoration,
they remain bleak as Antarctica,
empty as the Sahara.
Stuff will not suffice;
bric-a-brac remains invisible.
Even the best music merely echoes:
Mozart, Vivaldi, even Beethoven
cannot fill the emptiness.
Clocks clang like church bells
and every muted footfall
screams out loneliness.
They are places to pass through
where you reside but do not live.
Even the most asinine Realtor
couldn't call them home
with a straight face.
They are the shelter for those
who have not quite descended
to the bridge abutment.
They are where you wake up
alone into loneliness
and pretend each morning
you are still alive.
They are the difference
between survival and life,
breath and inspiration.
They are the preordained
end of the game
you were forced to play
and doomed to lose.
We each get but one home
and if by folly or disaster
we destroy it,
wherever we go
we remain homeless
in the wilderness
of rented rooms.

   - mce
I have lived in many.
Alazella Jan 2015
Sitting in a dark room,
illuminated by the ghostly screen.

Sitting in a light room,
thinking how to describe me.

Sitting in a blank room.
knowing I want to please.

Sitting in a full room,
trying not to scream.

Sitting in a dark room:
I can't help but think,
that no one cares,
even though I know it's not true.

Sitting in a light room:
Knowing people care,
but still hearing
insults, hatred, unease.

Sitting in a blank room:
I can't ever be
good enough,
smart enough,
"nice" enough.

Sitting a full room:
Suffocated by the
wants and needs and duties
I have been forced to fill.



Dark, Light, Blank, Full:
I care, and
I'm still trying.
Brian Payamps Nov 2014
Our love was fruitful
But so rotten
Far from an Adam and Eve's story
We both knew what were doing
When we were in the sheets
We both had it all and gave it up for nothing
Lust in the air every time we connect a stare
Hyatt knew us well.
Hyatt knew us well.
sleeping bag Nov 2014
Rooms are sort of a sanctuary---
especially for a teenager,
a place to build your own world
even though you feel sort of stuck there.

I took down everything in my room
before I left for college 4 years ago
and now it’s not so much my room
but a room that I stay in sometimes.

There are still remnants of clear tape
that held up posters and photos
and other teenage memorabilia
I surrounded myself with.

When things got boring or lonely
it meant sneaking out of the house
to wander around the neighborhood
with friends or headphones
and then eventually back in my bed
staring up at the stringy lights on my ceiling.

The time I snuck out and smoked my first joint
I didn’t know whether to cry or to laugh
at the fact that I could almost see
the community center I took swim lessons at as a kid
just beyond the end of the lighter.

I think I needed someone to talk to because things got bad,
but all of my feelings and energy went into obsessively building
a world for myself that I could survive in
despite the fact that it was hurting me.

I rearranged my reality into something bearable
but destructive at the same time,
because the only freedom I felt like I had then
was choosing what I wanted to see.

I felt closer to these things than anything in my life;
it was a world made up of memories with friends,
hours and hours of music,
and following some sort of fandom.

Leaving it all behind was like
killing a part of myself that helped me keep going.

Somewhere down that road
I realized that happiness was a choice,
even though my world made of things I depended on
was gone and my problems were still there.

I’m building a different world for myself elsewhere now
but sometimes I end up back in this room
and it feels a little empty
but also the right kind of nostalgic.
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