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My Room by John Riley


What is real and how do you define it?

Sight? Sound? What you can feel? 

Am I really OK with reality as the process of electrical signals interpreted by the brain?

I’m mean if that is the case then what if the line between the seen and unseen suddenly vanished.

Leaving me cleaving to whatever sanity I have left.

Clutching to the only thing I believe to be reality is actually a travesty of an illusion, 

choosing my weakest points to bruise them

Elusive but not lost, only steel trapped in the lap of purpose 

but the sky is capped with a flap of demonic influence.

You see where truancy is doom to me I’m terrified of what or who I'm due to meet

Perhaps it’s an obstacle I'm due to leap and will lead to another I'm due to beat 

that feeds to a level I must complete after the final opponent I must defeat.

But I tried to believe...I tried but the wait wasn’t worth the hurt again even if faith is death to spiritual pathogens 

immune like Africans And after then seeking the soul once I know who’s after them

And if you read beyond the passages as fast as a lasting mass of ashes you will

discovered an entire empire of civil-lies-aging on a hospital bed surrounded by wolves that remain patient 

Discovered the location when they heard the name paging 

In the mood for cajun so they fade in

To the false sanctuary I thought was my room

I thought I lived there 

but it seems I just occupy the space and by grace I feel the mace that savors the taste of hat, but I refuse to give in to the wolves 

equipped with million dollar excuses that don't make cents. 

I’m content with my attempt to stand out from the wolves 

who have mastered debating while skating over unusually cold arguments 

while eliminating vision from the mantle of purpose. Sure I can change that if I asked for it but my sword is dormant and I lost the will to fight for it.

Maybe I just bought the thought that I had all the time in the world to start the art of life set apart.  

Sometimes my logic is the product of betrayed ideas and what's left is theft by the unclear

I really have been living in a dream world 

A world disguised and designed to blindfold me from the knob and the outline outside my peripheral

I guess it's time to wake up and realize the truth behind the strange occurrences inside my room.


John Riley, known to his friends as BStryke, is an aspiring writer and director. Originally, he moved to Los Angeles from Jacksonville Florida to pursue dance and adulthood. He never thought that his written pieces would or could ever be something he shared with other people. He is proud of how far he's come from this timid guy to a man with the courage and talent to be something more. Instagram: @b.stryke


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