Room 222

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I’ve always been a fool
For film
old records
New art
Old books
And hard sole shoes
For paper
Bound in leather
And ink
And cameras
I liked ghosts
I liked empty buildings
Maybe that’s why I
Went to the hotel
On Manchester avenue
Maybe that’s how
I came to be famous
But I still feel bad about it
I feel as though I stole something

You see
It was between 1 and 3 am
That’s when all writers write
Anything worth writing
And fear forgetting
And that’s when
Any good ghosts
Go ghosting

I heard a woman singing
In the hall
So I went to check it out
When I looked
I just caught the glimpse of a dress
Around the corner
So I followed

Only to catch a door as it closed
In room 222
My heart in my throat
I entered
To find
Books
And papers
Journals
And art
Music
And film
This room
At the end of the hall
With a woman in white
And steel blue eyes
Singing her song quietly

I asked her what it was
When she handed me a journal
I opened it
To find
A short story
I had planned on writing
For my 18th birthday
But quickly forgot …
I looked up at her
Her eyes quietly speaking

This room
Was where
All our ideas
Go
The ones we lose
The ones we burn
Worn and burned
Lost and forgotten
They were agony
They were art
So I stole them
I published them
And I made my fortune
But
For every success
Part of me became this place
I couldn’t leave it
I couldn’t make art
Outside of this room
Eventually in time
I became just as much
Of it
As the woman in white
Walking the halls
Or the lampshade on the night stand
The key in the door
I’ve forgotten how
Introductions go…
I’m only thinking of
Endings …
Hung up
Within in-betweens
Like the vortex
Of 1 and 3 am
That’s what I am….

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