The chair creaks as
I rise from it;
god, what a horrid
sound.
As I walk through
the room, the dust
scatters from me
like scared little bugs.
I tear those
sickeningly yellow
curtains
away from their charge
and flinch
at the equally
revolting
sun.
Doesn't it have anything
better to do
than shine in my
eyes
and remind me
of those darkened
bags?
I kick the generator
as I walk
away
knowing that
it won't do anything;
damn thing
hasn't worked in years.
Nothing here works
like it's supposed to,
anyways.
I can't help but ask
why any of this
matters
to me.
Why should I care
about that
chair;
about the
dust;
about those
stupid
yellow
curtains?
They don't matter.
They're just the
little things that I just
can't forget about for some
reason.
Tasteless,
silly little things
that don't mean anything
to anyone else,
and to me it's
all
just
noise.

I need some sleep.