Fresh Air

I’m sprawled out across my bedroom floor

because my bed is just too consoling

and I want to feel the cold hardened boards,

to feel my self-pity controlling.

How did I become so lost somewhere so

familiar and full of fond feelings?

I’m buried under junk I need to let go

but the thought of their absence leaves me reeling.

If I just had a clearout of my chest

I think that I would lose eleven stone

and then; no, I still wouldn’t want to rest

and that ounce left of me would still feel alone.

I decide to stand and head to the window,

open it as wide as my damp, tired eyes

and I behold the world breathing below

to see that I’ve become that which I despise.

Should I join that life in the windy streets

my cheeks would return to a rosy verve,

rather than wrapping up in my bed sheets;

youth is not to be bubble-wrapped and conserved.

So to hell with boredom, to hell with sorrow

I want to breathe in all life’s oxygen.

No longer living for a tomorrow,

I will feel alive, day by day, again.