The Writer's House


Beige is the color of stagnation;

It paints the walls of my mind as they reach up to the sky.

Creaking and groaning and built in haste

The walls stretch

To build this little house in my brain not out, but up

Until it becomes something grand.

For now it is shabby;

The floor is hidden by tea stains

And books that I have learned not to miss.

Characters live here, voices loud but bodies immaterial

Making all sorts of racket and climbing up the walls.

They want to be let out.

I want them to hide.

They jostle and poke against my thoughts until there is no space left for me to think

So that I have to throw open the doors and windows

And let them pass over the threshold

Let their bodies turn to pencil scratches

And swipes of ink.

I build them houses so that

They become neighbors, not tenants,

Yet they still whisper in my dreams

Of who they want to be.

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