Artificial vs. Natural

I've spent a lifetime in this room.
Certain sources of light.
Various lamps have come and gone,
all lasting different times.
Wherever they have been placed
in the dark box that is my room,
they have all given me a different kind of light.

The first -
A pleasant,
soft,
colorful glow.
I can see the room;
red, green, blue, pink.
A walk at a carnival.
Rushing roller-coasters,
centrifugal confinement,
ferris wheel carts,
sweet cotton candy.
Eventually, the carnival trip ended.
So did my time with the lamp.

The second -
A small,
sad,
weak dim.
With time, the bulb gave out.
The room? Distorted.
My mind? Foggy.
What was what?
What was where?
Oh, this place,
I thought I knew it so well.

The third -
Calls my bedside table home.
Always there when I need it,
just never put to use.
This light was strongest,
but of course,
the bulb gave out 
again
and
again.

These lamps, they leave
in multiple ways.
Plugs burn out.
Bulbs fail.
Shades rip.
They are taken from me;
"This room is better.
Brighter."
All artificial,
nothing real,
nothing true,
nothing strong
ENOUGH
to keep me going.

In this room,
one sole lonely window.
One sole lonely window
whose blinds never get attention.
Whose blinds are always
SHUT,
never open for sunlight.

Despite never bringing in sunlight,
the window brought something else.
Through tiny holes for drawstrings,
baby rays of sun play peek-a-boo,
struggling to find the atmosphere
of the dark, empty room.

As rays play peek-a-boo,
motes have a party,
dancing and dancing around.
Limited light equals limited party.
"Let us in.
Let us in." whispered the motes.
FINALLY, the blinds got attention
being separated with

even

gaps

between

each

dusty

panel.

SUNSHINE!
Suddenly SUNSHINE!
It shone through so bright,
so warm,
so comforting.
The most amount of luminescence
gave the most positive,
happy,
content feeling
that the walls ever felt.

This is what NATURAL feels like -
Better than the fake stuff.
It's the kind of light
that keeps you going through everything
even though on some days,
the skies can turn grey,
sad,
rainy.

Despite these disruptions,
no worries,
the light from the precious sun is still there.
She is my light.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

ohno_itsjo

My paragraphs aren't breaking and I am crying

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