MY ROOM OF LIFE AND DEATH

This is the room I as born in, the room where I surely will die. The walls are huge sponges of sorrow. They've soaked up my every soft cry, They know who I've loved and I've lost here. They know my degenerate ways. This is the room of my sleeping. The room of my nights and my days.

This is the room of my shadows. This is the stage of my dreams. This is the room of my failures. The womb of my indiscreet schemes. Here I was born on a morning where sun slashed a hole in the gloom. Lit up every corner like fire and ignited the life in this room.

I screamed with the terror of living. I grasped for narcotic-like air. I kicked to be free of the binding, the umbilical cord of my mare, I sucked like a soul craving liquor. Like one thirsting in dry desert heat. Each drop of milk in my gullet was sucked from a life-giving teat.

I leaped from the arms of a mother who wrapped me in warmth like a glove to the hands of a money mad master who offered me gold but not love. "Grab life by he balls and possess it." This was my challenging chant. Damn all the roadblocks to billions. To hell with the failure called Can't.

I watched for a moment of weakness. When lesser men fell I was pleased, I conquered worlds made of money, towers supported by greed. I carved my name in misery where every lost failure could read. But as night crawls around me and chokes me with its inescapable gloom, I creep like a hound to the comfort, the silent retreat of my room. I pull down the shades of my windows. I cover my head as I lie. This is the room I was born in, the room where I surely will die.