Main | recipe for apathy »

hung by the bed

though it is as familiar as my autumn coat,
like a sandbag on a hook,
hung by the bed or by the door
ignored but always breathing there
in the coldest corner of the room
like a burned out bulb I never change
dark and present with every switch
always waiting for a break
i know it better than my hands
or the family photos on my phone
deceptive comfort lying there
a home that's never been a home
will wrap its lining over me
until I cede another day
if misery is not my friend
why do I hang it near

PrintView Printer Friendly Version

EmailEmail Article to Friend

Reader Comments

There are no comments for this journal entry. To create a new comment, use the form below.

PostPost a New Comment

Enter your information below to add a new comment.
Author Email (optional):
Author URL (optional):
Some HTML allowed: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <code> <em> <i> <strike> <strong>