July 4, 2009

the door is creaking
I can hear it slam shut as shuffles of those slippers
travel up and down the cement corridor
but I lie awake in my...
..pains?
...regrets?
...loss?

It's one thing to lie on the cold hard bed and
another to be with a presence on that
same, cold, hard bed. The matress
would seem...
...more inviting?
...more warm?
...more loving?

How do I equate a loss of the world
when all I can do
is lie on that damned
cold, hard bed?
I hear the door open.
Creak
And then shut again.
The echo of a closing
renounces throughout the room
and I lie there
only to believe that the world is cold and hard
just like that damned bed.

I've got my believes
and I suppose I should stick by it
no matter how much I'm being
tempted into destroying it
along with my morals
but everytime that damned door creaks
or I lie on that damned bed, I'm
always reminded:

There is a life out there, and
only I can retrieve it for myself
and so I stay on that bed
alone
cold
aching
just to be able to achieve that life
in hope that maybe
some day
I'll be able to let it all go....