The Apartment

I will preface by saying . I am not good at poetry.  It never sounds like my tone and I feel uncomfortable, so don't expect much.  I rarely bash myself before the story, but this is just me venting in a way that's easier than a regular paragraph.  This is also why I'm posting at night.  Nobody every reads this at night.

As I lay surrounded by four walls, I see this place for what it is.

Not as a living space, but as a microcosm of my life.

The walls, closing in, strangling me,

but all the while asking me to break through.  

The queen bed, too big for it's setting, 

in the strangest of ways, how I see myself.

The broken light in the bathroom, hides the reality.

Masking the fact, I'm not who I want to be. 

I shave in darkness, enhancing my look for who?

The stranger I haven't met or the woman I've lost?

The floor littered with clothes, some dirty some clean.

Covered magazines and papers, some thought lost.

I stare at a pile of mail, unopened, unread.

A symbol of unknown possibilities.

I look over at a beige folder, it's contents invaluable.

A picture of my beautiful mother, covered so she can't see.

Many times I think of her, all the time really.

When things are good I'd gloat, but they aren't.

I know she knew what was best, and yet I was me, 

I was right, every time, even when I was dead wrong.

The room is dark, I can hide here.  

Nobody cares here, it's just me.  

Laying here, the darkness consumes me. 

Like life itself, and it's blinding reality.

An hour passes, I fade into a state of dormancy,

sleep is comforting, but comes with it's own harrowing moments.

I dream of better times, of holding hands.

I dream of worse times, of running dearly for my life.

My eyes open and I see slivers of light, poking through the blinds.

They too are nothing more than allegory. Of my future?

The tiny beams of light, shining into the my murky lair, 

showing me it's not all bad, that there is hope.

It may take minutes, maybe even hours, 

but I rise, with renewed vigor.

Seizing the day, is cliche isn't it.

I want to touch it, not necessarily grab it.

Maybe it was the words of a friend, my father, or grandmother,

or maybe it was a kiss, a hand on my cheek.

Is it all that simple and we make it so difficult?

Maybe by lessening life's expectations, I can deal with it.

Today I awoke, thoughts of a friend fresh in my head.

I sprung up and went through that mail, and started to clean.

I have a ways to go, I know it's a long journey.

I am not giving up, never will.

The walls seemed to move, the room expanding, 

possibly to let the new, brighter sun in.

As the clutter was lifted, some of the burden wandered too,

away from me, to somewhere far away.

Tonight I sit in the darkness, thoughts running through my head, 

thoughts of how I want life to be and how it is.

I know how I'd like my day to start, as it ended the other night, 

but either way, things are good and can only get better.