A Vacant Room

I am in a room with a single window.

Open slightly,

enough to hear the passing of cars,

the swearing of teenagers,

the wind resting on the trees.

I am in this room and I am alone,

alone with specs of the sun on the wooden floor,

glimmering shadows,

books and a picture,

of us—

I am on a chair that will not move,

because I refuse to,

a chair that will always remain exactly what it is,

while I—continue to change,

waiting for some sort of rapture,

longing for some sort of Holy intervention,

or the opening of a door,

or more—

There’s a colorful Croton plant in the window,

perhaps it hears what I hear,

it can see what I see,

feel what I feel,

perhaps it hears the echoes of my depression,

bottled up, 

harvesting a lackluster moon which pounds against my rib cages,

taunting the jail room with threats of erupting,

destroying the walls,

bearing solace,

mourning the gravitational pull of a wave,

to save,

myself.

Perhaps it hears nothing,

feels nothing,

hears not even the silence I speak of,

maybe its done growing,

maybe I am too.

The window brings in a cool breeze from time to time,

as time becomes time passed by,

I’m aging and breathing,

the clock never stops for a moment like this,

to smell,

feel,

or see,

—me.

In A Vacant Room.

maplekoyo:

I am in a room with a single window.

Open slightly,

enough to hear the passing of cars,

the swearing of teenagers,

the wind resting on the trees.

I am in this room and I am alone,

alone with specs of the sun on the wooden floor,

glimmering shadows,

books and a picture,

of us—

I am on a chair that will not move,

because I refuse to,

a chair that will always remain exactly what it is,

while I—continue to change,

waiting for some sort of rapture,

longing for some sort of Holy intervention,

or the opening of a door,

or more—

There’s a colorful Croton plant in the window,

perhaps it hears what I hear,

it can see what I see,

feel what I feel,

perhaps it hears the echoes of my depression,

bottled up, 

harvesting a lackluster moon which pounds against my rib cages,

taunting the jail room with threats of erupting,

destroying the walls,

bearing solace,

mourning the gravitational pull of a wave,

to save,

myself.

Perhaps it hears nothing,

feels nothing,

hears not even the silence I speak of,

maybe its done growing,

maybe I am too.

The window brings in a cool breeze from time to time,

as time becomes time passed by,

I’m aging and breathing,

the clock never stops for a moment like this,

to smell,

feel,

or see,

—me.

Quiet Noise

maplekoyo:

Lonely tidal waves search for their manhood;

Their Adam’s apples,

to turn their adolescent erections into wet dreams,

to divorce themselves from their mother;

A testosterone filled orgasm onto the shore

for a human ear to hear nothing but quiet and to enjoy a bore;

a vidid, yet mere, crash. 

“Melanin crayons,
We drew outside of the lines
Our skin, was boundless.”


(via maplekoyo)
(via maplekoyo)
Jermel Moody
Jermel Moody
Jermel Moody
Jermel Moody
Jermel Moody
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