By Dee Allen

The silent walls
Know my every mood.
This room is where my
Confidence goes to die.
I come here as well
To recover, nurse the wounds
Past detractors
With knives sliced into me.
Four wooden walls
In a first-floor duplex apartment
Provide refuge from
The mob of haters looking to finish the job.
No more performances.
No more false adulation.
No more attempts to impress
Faces that will despise me later.
Give me seclusion.
Finally, I can lay down
And relax
And reflect
And brood
And hate
With my whole heart
The species I disown
Never giving me
One slight chance.

This room is where I come to suffer.
And heal.

In solitude’s stillness, no one can judge me.

African-Italian performance poet based in Oakland, California. Active on the creative writing &
Spoken Word tips since the early 1990s. Author of 5 books [ Boneyard, Unwritten Law,
Stormwater and Skeletal Black, all from POOR Press, and his newest from Conviction 2 Change
Publishing, Elohi Unitsi ] and 25 anthology appearances [ including Your Golden Sun Still
Shines, Rise, Extreme, The Land Lives Forever and Civil Liberties United, edited by Shizue
Seigel ] under his figurative belt so far.

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