I feel bound by this place, <br />Dangling on a string extending from it's centre, <br />These matted cigarette-burned carpets, <br />Have become the smooth floor, <br />For my rough soled feet. <br />This unwelcoming boarded front door, <br />Has become my anchor, <br />A place of retreat. <br /> <br />I have scaffolded my interior, <br />With mental metal and iron-grip thoughts, <br />But can I really trust myself, <br />Does this barrier have a fault? <br /> <br />For my sanity, <br />I must run from here, <br />But I feel unworthy and reluctant to leave, <br />Because this very place, <br />Has become the definition of me.<br /><br />Eleanor Best<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cigarette-burned-retreat/
