Poems about room


№ 1208524

Not Enough Room

I don't understand myself anymore because of you.
I feel beautiful and ugly when I'm with you.
Every sound is louder
And every touch is heavy.
I don't know what to do with myself
Because I can this voice telling me to be cautious.
Step lightly.

I don't know where I'm going in life.
And because of you I think about that.
That, hangs out in my mind tied to a knot.
It sways me back and forth
Empty and lifeless.
That thought feels like nine panic attacks.
It makes me sick.

And you make me want to forget about it all
And quit.
Run to the hills
And disappear into the deep end of the deep dark woods.
You make me want to run a thousands miles
And sky dive off a cliff.
You make me want sit back and let it happen.
Just to see what happens.

But, you know, I already know what happens.
I'll let you blow my brains out.
You can be my calm before the storm.
You're my tornado.
I'm the eye in the center of your storm.
We are in a single room.
Lying in a coffin made for Two.

My God, please scoot over.
There is not enough room.


Author: Sabrina DLT
Date: 05/04/2020

№ 1208497

Dorm Room ,1985

Slightly stoned and drunk
We enter into far out reaches
Of the universe to microscopic,
Subatomic worlds. We wonder if
Life's a dream, then argue whose.
Is time travel possible? Maybe
We're all from the future or past.
If we changed an event from the
Past would we exist in the now?
Vomit brings us back to the now.

dorm,  room.

Author: BJ Donovan
Date: 05/04/2020

№ 1206428

In The Quiet Room

Answering to animist impulses
He was certainly alert and receptive
With his mathematics of love
An urbane tribute song to transience
That echoes the color of nothing
Just a metaphor for memory

Near-sighted and tone-deaf
His steady gaze before him
He says in his language that he's lost
Going on and on about desiring things
Until the whiff of strangers breaks his spell
And just like that it's over

quiet,  room.

Author: Jeff Spate
Date: 03/04/2020

№ 1206287

Make room for good things

Sometimes good things
Fall apart
Shattered dreams
A broken heart
In that time
It may appear to be over
And hope is as easy
As finding a seven-leaf clover
But there's a reason things fell
They were fragile and broke
They couldn't be forever
And fate had spoke
When you pick a rose
You may only notice the thorn
Off of you favorite things
You may have sworn
But sometimes things break
To be replaced
And to make better of
The challenges you faced
Sure your dreams
Shattered to pieces
And your heart broke
And you felt like feces
But someone had to make room
For better things, I'm sure
Keep your head up
And look for the bright future.

good,  room,  things.

Author: Emma Chatonoir
Date: 03/04/2020

№ 1205395

The Dining Room Table

What ever happened to that dining room table?
As a child
The dining room table
Was my play house.
It was a big table
With legs on all four corners.
My dog Trixie and I
Would spend a lot of time
Under that table.
Mom was making drapes
On top of the table...
The radio was on with all the old shows.
But I was busy dressing
Trixie up in old baby clothes.
I even had room to pull
The little doll buggy under this table.
I had a dog that was
Quite content being lazy in the buggy.

What ever happened to that dining room table?
We always had that dining room table
Filled with family on holidays.
Lots of food on the top...
Mom was a great cook.
Her specialities were
Pork roast, tomato pudding
And plum cake...
Dad would have German music
Playing in the background.

What ever happened to that dining room table?
It was old, and traded in for a new model.
Which also had four legs on each corner.
Was blond oak, and very modern.
My memory of that one,
Is of my kids, playing games,
Eating snacks and also
Holidays filled with family,
Eating moms pork roast,
Tomato pudding, and plum cake.
And I added Pink Stuff.

What ever happened to that dining room table?
House sold...
Left, only the memories...

By Judy

dining,  room,  table.

Author: Judypatooote
Date: 02/04/2020

№ 1204580


I pulled the arms off my clock

It stopped waving instantly

And became silent

Leaving only

Meaningless numbers

That I could never call

And all the time in the world




Author: BG Hermitt
Date: 02/04/2020

№ 1203331

Painting a room

The room.
Flowers bloom.

The rain.
Coating paint.

The product.
Don't need the plug.
There's still happiness.

painting,  room.

Author: V4N1
Date: 01/04/2020

№ 1202387

My Fucking Room, and Me

Http: //www. youtube. com/watch? v=fm4Tr9Sy6pk*

My ceiling's painted in a off-white, it holds a multitude of dreams, from the night, before i sewed them into my seams. It captured them and absorbed them into the million grains of whites, each grain containing my dreams from the last two years and 3 nights. It hold the weight of the couple from above and their arguments and their make-up sex, and break-up love. It holds my worries and becomes my sky, inside my head there is no limit, but to this ceiling, it watches me cry. It holds my dreams. It bears my sin, there is tissues and love letters left in the bin. It bears the curse from the cigarettes i smoke, and watches when i get slammed and i am broke. Leaves me alone, reeling. My spinning world, my off-white ceiling.

I stretch my legs out in this bed, where the duvet colour is a past memory of faded red. This bed, oh it holds many woes, many girls, i have watched come, and literally go. I have cried a million sea of tears into this colour of red, in this ship, i call my bed. It holds my life, as my body lies when it cannot arise, and i cannot begin to see the world i have begun to despise. I have lost myself in this faded sheet, i have lost my mind, i have lost my marbles and my feet. I trapped myself on many a dark night, I have held a torch under these covers to bring me light; when i played hide and seek, and i ran from nightmares of that boy, in my sleep. It holds my come, my smoke, my legs, and my colour of red. My duvet covers, my bandaged head

I drift off...

I cannot bang my head no longer against the back wall, because i no longer hear you hear my call. It's painted in a lilac colour, that wasn't my choice, and even in this simple matter, i feel like i've lost my choked voice. Here is my ship, there is my sky, it creaks as we tip toe and when they leave it bends with a sigh. The floor is in intrepid water, cracked ice, a danger zone, sirens and mermaids and whiskey, in a world i call my own. Here in this room i have toasted many a lover, taken one too many under this cover; i have held one of many in my arms, i have used my false wit, i have used my faceless charms; i used my smile, i used my eyes, i used the hint of something that they would later despise. Then i would watch them come, i would lie under, next, to, beside, on top of, them, and tell them their day is done.

There is a white blind that covers my window, its covered by curtains of black; how ridiculously symbolic is that? The very thing that lets in light, pushes it out when it comes to night. And every pair of footsteps to come through that door, well, they walk on broken footprints from someone before. The dust lies no differently beneath my bed, though I would never know, if they had never said. This ceiling sees my each and every move, it sees my tongue and fingers secretly find and explore every groove. And i am an explorer of lands unknown, there is no compass to where i go, myself and me, on our own. We sit here and watch as they sleep after we've drunk tea, and we draw out new maps to places we can't see. My lonesome room and lustless me.

This wonder of my eyes, a slight tinge of blue sin, leaves me to draw out the poison i have kept within. A filing cabinet of scars and pain, subconsciously picked out from the bin inside my brain; they play out to a roomless crowd, where i call out, cry out, shout out, way too loud. And when the poison is brought forth, and my lover has come, i know my job is over, my job is done. And as it retreats and my heart drown in circles around my soul, this is not me presented lying here, for i am living breathless, w-reckless ghoul. Girl or not, or who i am, this is not me, this is not who i a-m. I am not what i present, i am not what you see, i am not your one nor your fucking cup of tea. I am not what you touch, taste or feel, nothing of this, my lovely little fucker, is real. My ceiling, my wall, this is my crowd, this is my secret place, this is me, in this red sheeted, white covered, black lit space.


Author: Rachael Stainthorpe
Date: 31/03/2020