I read books that I write about me
I will not have one published one day
Who wants to read about me
Other than me – who has time to read all day
Youth is the essence of vast
Depression and drugs awake one day to find it gets worse
I don’t know who I’m kidding
I’m still the same sobbing kid I was twenty-two years prior
I am the only person I believe
Who holds any sort of interest in me
I stare in the mirror all night
Only to heckle the clown who solemnly stares me down
Can someone tell me what I am trying to say
Does anyone care anyways
Am I just stringing pointless words
No clandestine pattern, rhythm, or design
Chaos has no chance to flourish supreme
Insanity will never abandon its rain
Nonconformity is all I’ve ever known
Within this little room I dwell alone with all I’ve ever known
A Note from the author:
I wrote Within this Little Room about an author sitting in a room contemplating whether to write another book or retire.
Copyright © 2016 by John Mallozzi
