room without room

It began subtly,

a hurtful remark on my page,

lies, blood-soaked,

echoed from my screen, consuming me.

Failing to focus, postgraduate setback.

Hoping to return next year when I feel stronger.

Leaving behind excuses and anxieties.

Just barely made it through the first stage.

A foul odour invaded my home.

I couldn't breathe; panic filled the air.

The window wouldn't open, and the repair costs were soaring.

My landlord was distant and abusive, leaving me stranded.

To whomever I turned,

the story painted grim.

Few wanted to hear it.

An electricity shortage, fuelled by incompetence,

tenants ruining the house and, by extension, me.

It should have been an apartment, not a share house.

Would this nightmare ever cease?

I've been searching for a new place since then.

It's been three months, and I'm still considering my options.

I won't be taking care of your garden in the winter,

nor will I be covering any repair costs.

I'm just renting, not buying your house.

The rules keep changing constantly.

They've never really accepted me, not truly.

A writer who can't write, when everything's falling apart.

No room

in my mind's crowded space,

eager to chase my dreams.

Guess I'll have to hold on,

take another shot of breath, cold and sharp,

and struggle until the very end.