I wrote this poem right before I fell asleep. My mind was wandering and my eyes were searching for something I didn’t know I needed. My wallpaper was peeling. Lines popped into place, a character was introduced, and this poem was born.
The wallpaper is peeling off my windows
The paint chipping from the carpet on the floor
The bricks of my home are crumbling
Soon my house will be made of dust
The rust in my staircase is leaving sawdust scratches on my fingers
I cannot write with all these bandages
And even as my shaking tentacles wrap around this ink dripping feather
My paper is turning brown
I cannot find my car windows
But a dolls head is rolling down the stairs
Her eyes say open over ever step and never seem to look at me
I am running out of peanut butter to share with the worms
The stars aren’t so bright anymore
I made a noose out of tootsie roll pops
My feet are black as I sit on the dotted yellow line and read my poetry
Waiting for a steamy windowed tugboat to drag me away
They say visitation hours are over
but no one ever came
I love how it’s never nighttime here
However tipped my toes are I can’t find a window to peer out of
There are red lines across my wrists
and they told me that I put my bracelet on too tight
My favorite room to go to is the one that reeks of pain
With all the sounds that fizzle as they put pop rocks in my brain
I ride my duck here every morning
My legs are made of paper mache
The walls are bleeding again
As the wallpaper peels away
