The Room (10.21.20)

I am dripping down sidewalks

like melting pools of lead.

I am hibernating

to incubate my sanity

from falling off the deep end.

The chaos,

anywhere,

too close to the dream you wish for.

I only know my room, some days

it is the only thing that says

you are always valid, here.

You are welcome

abode

in 50 square feet,

radios at 5 am

when you can't sleep

old candles,

and nominal circumstance,

to pour over your mistakes

on the floor

the shameful array of disappointed looks

you have collected over the years

the invisible cargo

embedded like sad cameos in the mind

You cannot forget

unless you eject the memory chip

to put it all away

without a lesson to be learned,

a reflection to be had,

the difficult parts of your story they don't get to see.

To heal,

to grow,

to become,

when you are sure your pace has slowed,

and barely hanging on

is as fast as you can go.

Kiss goodbye to the comments and likes,

to the bad reviews or the hype,

it does nothing for

character,

now does it?

To be more afraid of falling on deaf ears and dead cadences

than no light at the end of a tunnel

to qualify whether or not

you've made it...

arduous,

vilifying,

yet more whole

than anything the world can speak of.

Unravel the toxic thought,

trace the origin back

like how we recover lost items

step by step,

to not go mad,

and drive yourself home.