Prose of a Con

Right before I enter my room

I look into it’s narrow window

and it’s small, confined

claustrophobic dwelling-

for any human with possessions-

and realize I have nothing.

This is what it is

and I have to succumb

and make do with this near nothingness

and still venture to find a smile in the day

and a ray of hope in the tomorrow

while possessing myself

with beliefs of normalcy

of what is now my reality

in order to not to go crazy

and I do this all in a matter of nano seconds

so fluently

as if it was never even pondered for a moment

fooling myself at times

believing this is my life

my room

my place

but this is prison

and I have to accept it,

because if I choose not to,

then what…?

Contempt Contentment