and back again.

back to that place.
where there are not enough artists
in the world to blot the white walls out

where bits of this and bits of that
take root and grow in horizontal facades
rising up from the bottom,
to strangle me in my sleep.

where dishes dream of the days
when they were proper and presentable
and the recyclables claim defeated purposes.

where my thoughts are scattered on scraps
of paper floating about till I can't track them down
or decipher their correct chronological order.

where I exist unto myself, without the aid of acknowledgment.

But no one sees this place but me
when they see it, the dishes are usually cleaner
the trash is just creative chaos and aesthetically pleasing.
there's always something interesting to look at or discover.
and there I exist, acknowledged.