The Closet

I don't even know if this can be called a poem, but I write pieces like this

The Closet

This closet of mine, sitting in the corner

Of an empty room, never spoke a word,

Even though it holds 219 letters I wrote,

Each word a misery that never found your eyes.

Unfazed by the faces that come and go,

It never looks at none, nor does it looks for one.

My closet, it hides many secrets of mine,

It veils my tears, my screams, and a face

From people's sight and the world outside.

Even the sun and moon can't find me inside,

A grave my soul resides, a hole YOU left when YOU left with my heart.

To the left, in my closet, what are those?

Hanging next to my clothes;

A pair of lungs and a heart,

A liver and a pancreas, still alive and warm.

But I don't know how long they can hold on

When your memories are poison mixed with the oxygen.

Maybe I should learn to hate and resent.

Because when I leave this room, I leave my soul hanging inside the closet.

This closet with no pain, no fear nor joy, just a reflection of mine.

~sk.Mansur