My ceiling
They must be very entertained
Watching me type messages I know I can't send
Seeing me deciding upon speaking to the moon
I don't, because I know she won't understand
My ceiling
They stare at my tears left upon the floor
Wondering why I bother with all of this
Listening to me sing about my maniac love
All for you, they watch me go insane
My door
They're getting annoyed
As I fall back on them each night to cry
They're waiting to see if I'll stop complaining
Watching tentatively to see if I bleed
My door
They're staring through my eyes
They see my body, my soul, and my mind
Yet they cannot piece it together
Listening in to every word I mutter of you
My floor
Is feeling left out
The ceiling and door can watch all of this
But Im on my bed screaming to myself
So they can't see me
My floor
They want to comfort me, i know
I believe it so I sleep with them if I'm scared
The door and ceiling laugh in my expense
Yet the floor, they are here for me to hold
My pillows
They want me to find her already
They want me to find her and state my love
They tell me to stop grasping them,
And embrace her, as I do to them
My pillows
They expect me to confess this year
Or maybe next, but nevertheless
They want me to express these emotions
Welling up inside of me, clenching my lungs
Me?
I have no idea what to do
"Do you love her?" Asks my floor
"Yes, of course I do."
"Then say just that." Explains my pillows
"But is is not that simple!" I refute.
"What is on my mind, and what is on hers..."
"They cannot be the same!" I scream to them
"Patience," My ceiling speaks for the first time
"You must have it constant." My door chimes
"She loves you, she must just discover it."
Suggests the floor.
All so warm
The voices echo
Why...
Ah, of course.
They are in my mind.
Yet they all seem irrefutable.
I cannot deny the words they have spoke.
Though the floor seems a bit optimistic,
They all speak the truth.
I guess I'll speak with them when I seek advice
I hope my therapist won't mind.
Why would he, though.
I'm making his job simpler
I'll just treat myself with my room
I'll treat myself with this strange medication
Ah, yes, that is it.
It is a love called, "mania"
Though unhealthy, it is bitterly sweet
Irresistibly emotion based, and free
What may you call it?
A "maniac obsession."
But it is my form of love
Mania
Obsession
Burning desire
Passion
Love.
©aspen_fall
A