Narrative, Poetry, Short Poem

My Room

Periwinkle walls faded
with neglect, patched
over with purple swatches
of lavender and gooseberry,
my room used to be ordinary,
rudimentary in its discipline,
Spartan in its creativity yet,
in the waning crescent of my life–
I grew tenacious in my depravity.
The walls
bleed with absent thoughts
and petulant musings in white chalk,
whimsical stickers dotting
the surface like prepubescent freckles.
My bookcase
stands tall and proud
like a watchtower amidst a London fog,
books stacked purposefully inadequate
as my room tilts and shakes
from my excitement.
A chair
tangibly burdened by layers
and layers of my laziness
catches the corner of my idle eyes
as it creaks and spins.
Furniture,
littered surfaces, painted white and almost wooden
clogged by my damnable possessions,
my things, my trinkets, my tchotchkes
a clutter demanded by my psyche–
my psyche that demands to be obeyed.
My room offers a glimpse into my life,
Gardened by my dreams,
Objects that define me yet no one
Can ever discover the true me.

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