In the wild
of my silent room
the lamp leans, falling
a shadow as a result clings to my wall
a box has fallen
but i do not pick it up
its spilled contents
no longer mean as much
the pen clicks on
then retracts in
my mind is made up
it is not time to write again
I take a deep breath
and then i begin
the words creep onto the page
viewed by my judgmental eyes
if they could i bet
they would wear a disguise
for my biggest critic is myself
that i have realized
the ribbons that hang
flash before my eyes
the evidence is there
and yet the walls are so bare
never good enough
so why even care?