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.