Is your bedroom ceiling,
As dark as mine?
Can you see in,
The night?

Is it pebbled,
Is it flat,
What do the,
Shadows look like?

Can you look up,
And see your dreams,
Or just see concrete,
And beams.

I lay awake,
tonight.
Thinking, no, obsessing
over the sights, sounds, and emotions,
of a Tuesday morning,
at 7:30.
Innocuous as it was,
It fascinates,
and compels.
An experience so perfectly plain,
That it goes almost completely,
Unnoticed.

I sometimes sit at my desk,
And stare at the bulb,
It hurts but I don’t look away,
How frail it appears,
How frail but how powerful,
Shining in a dark room,
If only I felt like my lightbulb.

The energy it holds
I wish I felt,
But here I am
Burning my eyes,
For a glorious metaphor,
After all, pain is poetic.

So, it is I tell myself,
But it doesn’t have to be
I do this to myself,
I once felt like the lightbulb,
Full of energy and strength,
But now my hope like my eyes,
Burn in its wake.

Sometimes I feel like,
I’m on a tour through life,
And I may have picked,
The wrong location,
For I am not happy,
No, I am not happy.

The tour guide,
He goes on and on,
But the veneer,
Of these gilded halls,
Just feels empty.
No, I am not happy.

I can’t help but imagine
What it would be like
To see the Louvre,
Or perhaps the Hermitage.
But instead I get my museum,
A dull empty place
I am not happy.

But I am told I must be,
So here we are.
My museum may be dull,
And empty,
But it is mine,
I must be happy.