My Room

It never seems to change –
Except for the dust mites that gather in colonies
On the table-tops.

The shelves still ache,
Wailing of old age and a bent back.
Its features explode and the paint cracks like slits –
It reminds me of an old lady
Whose cosmetics cannot hide her wrinkles.

The bed still repels me off indignantly
With its bouncy springs –
An animal I can never tame
Or restrain with ropes.
I feel like a fly at a dinner table.

The clock is a grandfather by now –
Its aged hands move serenely in circles
That drive me to insanity,
As I sit awake each night,
Eyeballs spinning in a 360-degrees fashion.

The city outside never sleeps
Or gets weary in dreams.
Neon disguises pierce the night sky
From dusk to dawn.
The moon seems compelled to wear a costume
Which has embroidery that stretches silkily to me.

I think I'm becoming schizophrenic –
The mirror tries to smile at me each day
And I try my best to smile back.
Perhaps the mirror's just being polite,
As it greets me each morning
With the same dishevelled-hair-affair.

I think I'm becoming claustrophobic –
This 50 square-metre room does not do justice to
My anorexic figure.
The walls close in on me,
Intruding into my privacy,
And they tread on my sweetest dreams.