The Room

09.04.97

I don’t remember anything.
The people I’ve met,
The places I’ve been,
Or the faces I’ve worn.
My whole world has been shrunk.
Contained within this small room.
Every day I sit in my green chair,
And stare at the white walls.
Or maybe it’s not the walls.
Maybe it’s the ceiling.
Or even the floor.
I can’t ever tell which is which.
Seamlessly they bleed together,
To create my perfect world.
Well,
It would be perfect,
Except for one imperfection.
Located on one of the walls,
Is a monstrosity,
Which scares me every time I see it.
Perhaps monstrosity is not the right word.
You see,
I believe it’s a rather common defilement.
For it’s only a door.
The real fright,
Is what’s located on the other side,
The great unknown.
Or perhaps it’s not unknown.
Perhaps just forgotten.
But every minuet,
Of every hour,
That goes by,
My fear builds.
Because I know that like all other doors,
This on has a purpose
Eventually it must be opened.
Soon my curiosity will override my common sense,
And I’ll do the unthinkable.
I’ll stand up,
Walk to the north wall,
And grasping the handle,
Open the door.
In that instant
A great wave of anguish
Will crash upon the shores of my soul.
I’m sorry.
I told you that I’d forgotten everything,
Didn’t I?
Well that was only a little lie.
I truly don’t remember anything substantial.
But the scars remain.
They run deep.
And have never fully healed.
But some day,
Some day soon.
I’ll again bath in the pain,
And confusion of the world again.