My bedroom

My bed room

This room in which I sleep
It’s the place I weep,
It’s the space I cry,
The place I hope I’ll die.
Its bleak black walls
A place where my imagination crawls.
My craft framed.
I am ashamed
Of what my mind portrays
Of whom my work betrays.

Bloodstained clothes lie
Spilt from my scarred thigh.

Row after row of books,
Dead spiders wrapped in cobwebs
Hide in the nooks
And crannies of empty bottles.
By day this room’s a cell,
Its melody - the sound of a knell.
Through the small barred windowpane
Light floods into my domain.
I love this place,
Without it I could not face
Any thing the world throws at me.
Welcome to my bedroom.

Roseanna Whyte