Its me in all these words

Pages remain strewn

Across the carpeted floor 

Messy as they seem 

To unseeing eyes

 For me they hold what I consider most precious

 Possessions of mine

 Hidden from the world

 For they are mine alone to behold 

I like having these papers 

Scattered in the wind 

Like my thoughts 

Appearing like apparitions 

From secret conjurers in my mind

 A breath of fresh air 

Is what this seems like 

I like having them within reach 

These sheaves of yellowed sheets 

To write and write and write 

Every piece of my heart and mind 

The hurt and pains 

The joys and love 

The faults of mine 

The reprimands of others

 Of my swollen eyes and dishevelled hair

 Of my unkept bed and stringless guitar Of the guilt caged in me 

Of the love I silenced years back.

 This haven of mine 

The four walls of my room 

They provide more freedom than the world to give 

Memories of my first book 

Of the time I knocked my head 

The trophy that remained neglected Dust has settled on these surfaces

 But not on the treasures they contain Familiar smells 

Of acrid bug killers 

And scented candles

 The soap on the counter 

And the cigarettes in concealed tins This is where I grew up 

This room with carpeted floors 

And strewn papers

 It knows me like I know my breathing Away from the noise 

This is my solace 

With sheets on the floor and the bed and the shelves 

Ink drops on bedsheets and empty pens

 Away from the world 

This is who I am.