The Room

When I moved out of my city,

My broke existence allowed me to live

In a rather rundown building,

With just six other people,

Whose faces I have never seen,

But whose voices echo

The corridors every night;

Mine is the tiniest room

That I have ever come across,

With a bed from which

I fall off on most nights,

A chair that creaks like

The bones of an old lady,

A nightstand that stands

At the foot of the bed instead,

And a door that seems to be

Jammed shut since its birth ages ago,

There is no window,

The only source of light is

A bulb that hangs from

The exact centre of the ceiling;

I don't know if it is the stress

From all the anguish within myself,

Or because of everything horrid

That the people in my building

Keep shouting at the top of their lungs,

But nightmares have become

A frequent visitor,

The constant one being

The walls of my room closing in;

Perhaps it's my mind playing tricks,

But every time I wake up,

My room feels smaller than

The last time I'd have seen it awake,

I fell asleep last night

After 6 bottles of beer,

The walls in my dream

Were just inches away from me;

I woke up five minutes ago,

And as I was about to fall off the bed,

I hit my head on the wall,

I feel breathless, I think I'm about to die.

//NaPoWriMo, Day 4