The Box (a poem)

The Box

Written January 2nd, 2013

In my house, there is a box.

The box is mine, and in it I hide

When the house gets too loud

Filled with shouts and tension

Gossip and anger

When it’s too much on the outside

I shut the door on my box

And fill it with tears.

But it’s just cardboard

Very flimsy, very thin

Through its paper walls

I can still hear the agitated din.

Turn up music

Stuff cotton in my ears

Even when it’s quiet

I can still feel the scars

From all the dysfunctional years.

The anger and hurt

Lurks in the shadows

The smell of decay

Took over slowly

Carpet stains spread

The cobwebs hold built-up dread.

I keep my box clean

But there is always a whiff

Of something dead.

In my house, there is a box.

The box is mine, and in it I hide

A tiny sanctuary

From all the hate and tears.

Only a temporary shelter;

I can never fully erase the years.

It’s just cardboard

Very flimsy, very thin

And truly:

Not very safe at all, within.