The Poet Room
(Morning)
Self-shunned, feeling like almost an eternity behind stainless glass
Sepia frail drapes lay in half shade with bottom barred sunlight
Familiar, beloved chips of white plaster on cacky wallpaper
A grimy closet and a bedroom door of pure angelic white, blackly stained like used piano keys
The room, bruised and scraped from an exhausted, dragging golden age
Spending my temporal time writing on a black painted desk which bends slightly, eccentrically
My bed angeled beside and behind me, appearing like Gogh’s sheets of red
Clothes hang on hooks of a dirty door
Reclusive, I was and as I transition to a fresh freedom,
the room once filled with elation, laughter, anger and silent tears
Extreme cold in the winter and blistering fires with sweat in Hellish summers
A sentimental memory kept alive as daylight vanishes and Jazzy night approaches
(Night)
The Curtains cover the magical stars like a play’s end
The golden kernel glow of a sandy vintage lamp illuminates my table like the real times of the true silver age
After my cynical work, at moments lying and staring at a blank papery ceiling
Some nights, the clings and twinks of piano fogs up the writer’s block as I sip my favorite soda pop
Before my tongue reached for the metal
Strums of an electric guitar would shake the walls as I sat on beige carpet and in the middle of my hobbies,a sketch or two as my mind lingers alone
but now with ink rain, I stimulate my brain as much as I can
I smell and stare at the quenched candle flame’s wick
that sits on the widow wooden surface
My thoughts float like apparitions in an abyss of nostalgic self esteem
The door barricaded with a Do Not Disturb sign as I scribble out another poetic line
At the end of the day
I slumber for the next day in my delicate, expressive and purgatorial lifestyle
My sanctum so full of bleakness and yet shining artistic personality