The view from this bed is starting to grow mold

And I don’t think it’s all in my head

These walls, an irritating off white, mean nothing to me

And most flimsy rectangles of paper that remain as adornment

Are not significant anymore

They are curled at the corners

And their color has faded from years of stagnant sun streaming 

Through grimy windows which poorly display a wonderously

Freeing view of the world outside

Holes from tacks and putty that wont come off remind me

That I used to live here

Rejected posters and fliers beg to be torn down,

Embarrassed at how they stand out, and add to this feeling

Of disdain I cannot help but feel