The Walls

I stare at the walls of the bedroom,

Painted a muted pistachio green by god knows who and who knows when,

But that doesn’t really matter, does it?

When I try to think or try to create or try to do what makes me happy,

I just stare at the walls.

The walls, the walls.

I should go outside, try to breathe clearly, try to pull my brain out from the fog.

On bad days like today, I can feel them closing in.

I can feel them, I can see them, and I wait (or pray) for it to end.

But that doesn’t really matter, does it?

Because I won’t change.

Or maybe, I just can’t.

Maybe I’ll just try

And fail

And try and fail again;

A prisoner in these walls,

A fucking worthless waste of skin.

I can cry all I want,

I can scream my throat red and raw.

But I know I’ll go to bed tonight — not much better than before.

And I’ll wake up, kiss my spouse goodbye, and be alone to count the walls once more.

One. Two. Three. Four.

The walls, the walls, the fucking walls.

Tomorrow, then tomorrow, then the day after that,

I’ll tell myself I should get better or

That I should try something new.

But that doesn’t really fucking matter, does it?

Because I’ll end up doing the same thing, at the same time, in the same place,

With the same walls choking me to death.

This depression, this cold and heartless storm, will rain all hell down on me,

And I’ll have to seek refuge and comfort in the same place I always end up in.

Again and again and again.

I’ll crawl back into bed, and tell myself “I should be better” —

Or, “things will be better” — today.

But then I’ll stare at the walls of my bedroom,

Painted that muted, sickly green,

And as the walls start closing in, I’ll ask myself that same mistake:

“None of it really matters, does it?”