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The Room Of My Life

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Here,
In the room of my life
the objects keep changing.
The mirror,
reflects back who I don’t want to see.
But despite by internal protest
it’s who I am
it’s me.
It’s my eye for perfection
eye for success.
Externally I’m ambitious
Internally I’m a newborn kitten.
Fragile
weak
vulnerable
and scared.
The walls,
a vibrant green splashed upon all four
may represent who I was
but not who I’m going to be
A neutral should take it’s place
classic and sophisticated
which is who I am
who I’m going to be.
The sketchbook,
my diary
my journal
unguarded and unfiltered.
It’s me
splattered or elegantly painted
beautifully on the porcelain paper.
The charcoal pencil,
it’s bold strokes black as night
strike the white
corrupting the innocent of the pages.
What’s drawn is dependent
but what’s drawn is true.
Pictures of my friends
placed thoughtfully
delicately
on the wall show my past
and maybe
maybe not
my

future.
It’s my life in pictures
leading me to merriment
or darkness.
The gradual evolution who I was
to who I am.





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