Dirty Sheets

Another step along the soggy path
That runs among the clueless and the old,
A suitcase, packed, that wasn’t built to last
Is full of useless facts that I’ve been told.
I rest my eyes, but there’s nothing worse than
Having nightmares in the city of dreams,
Hiding behind ideologies that
Fade amongst skylines: were they ever clean?
I don’t remember how these sheets became
Dirtied: too long, perhaps, I went unchanged
And did not notice them: I am the same
But no one cared enough to notice me.
The pillows too are empty; full of air
That’s been recycled more times than myself;
Too many heads have rested, unaware
That they are pressing trodden ground of wealths
Of skulls who’ve rubbed against the same ideas:
Another print that removes defining
Features except a solitary sneer
That stares me in the face from the lining.
Strewn around the floor are parodies of
Feelings: artificial chemicals that seep
Into worn and tattered ideals of love
And send concerned awareness back to sleep.
Face cupped in hands, I look around the room
And fool myself that I can change the sheets,
That redemption will have to happen soon
And muddied water has to sound retreat.
But no matter how much soil I allot,
Nothing can ever grow here. No matter
How much expectation I try to pot,
Change will never nurture in the shattered
Shards of broken bottles and grimy linen
That still remains unchanged and smothers me
When all I want to do is breathe again
Instead of spending life among debris.
Elbows on my knees, I gulp and swallow
Blood that isn’t mine in a room that fosters
A million other lives, full of hollow
Anecdotes about who’s the real imposter.

Head on pillow, I think it might be me.