My Walls

Every corner of this room

is guarded by age stiffened piles of dusty laundry,

clusters of washed up sentry-men apathetically enduring their homelessness.

I sit in this chair at an offset center to four corners, shying from the stale alcohol

riding the breath of these wrinkled soldiers.

I'm living amidst a decrepit mess,

a spider web that has been flayed into useless strands

that can do nothing more than cloy possessively

at those whose feet won't take them elsewhere.

A rebellion my feet have gladly joined.

I haven't moved in weeks, and piles of sour smelling bottles have only caused my limbs to become

more disinclined to cooperate. 

Although it's not as if I ever used them for anything more than fatuous revelry, anyways.

I've become a reservoir of banalities.

Your smile hit me like a s**t-faced drunk,

and I've been spouting platitudes like a broken water main ever since. 

My time weathered wardens have become damp with my sprays of spittle,

my room growing rank with the scent of a carefully cultivated mold.

It's a quiet decomposition, the fetid scent of intelligence being forgone

for the sake of inane infatuation.

I was resigned to this course long before it was inevitable.

The filth is repulsive, but we can't set our standards unreasonably high;

disappointment would be worse than this peeling wallpaper, the roaches in the walls.

At least this I could see this coming.