My Room

Two sides of the wall
have been removed
and the paint
crusts underneath
and the wallpaper’s
faded to yellow
and it’s
crusting underneath.
The mirror’s cracked
down the middle
and instead of reflections
it projects only
grey
and the wardrobe
it sits in the middle
and the hinges have broken
so it’s arms lay open
broken in defeat.
The windows look out onto the street
the view isn’t anything
but the window to the right
sits open
seeming to swallow every passing of life
and the bed
the bed lays empty
with its sheets curled into itself
still as a new-born.

 
This
this isn’t really anything too dramatic
it’s just the place in which I lay
and its life
bleeds into mine
unknowingly becoming
the muse that every artist desires.