The first things you see, as you enter his domain
are the scratch marks that line the walls. Each one tells
of a heartbreak, a painful day, a broken promise.
Next is blue, the color painted on the walls
Not soothing, not serene, it's a cage of control with
bonds that scathe from a struggle for freedom
Books tip the shelves––the colorful children's tales and
those of a darker sort, filled with rape scenes and lustful fantasies––
screaming of the future, shouting out to be read.
Sometimes, you can almost hear them in the silence of Dead Night,
that hour where the whole world sleeps––the whole world without
that revolting child. But who cares? He's just another ant,
one of a billion, just waiting to be shred by the mower.
The half-smiles in photos seem out of place
amidst this other world––this room on the other side of life––
where tears become a mark of joy, and smiles become
nothing but an idea, lost and never to be found again.
The unkempt bed, the piles of clothing, textbooks, trash, and jewelry,
all drenched in blood or tears, just further the story
of a twisted childhood, riddled with attempts of murder,
of a thousand lies that haunt memories forever,
of a loneliness from a lack of anyone who cared,
of a meaningless existence without hope of escape,
of a loss of any care once had for a messy room or for happiness or even for life itself.
But who cares? A death would be insignificant.
And behind the childhood mementos that everyone keeps––
That's where he keeps it all, just in case those two,
whose names he's inscribed on the walls, on the desk, on paper,
and carved into his wrist, his ankle, and his hand, should ever disappear
and leave him behind.
I would really, REALLY, appreciate some thoughts!
