I have a bedroom
On the second floor
That i stay in
Embellished to my liking with own decor
Its been mine for years now
Yet i live and linger in the attic
There is no bed
No windows
No warth in the winter
There are only mountains of old cardboard boxes
With faded sharpie writing
Its not too appealing
Or enticing to look at
But in those boxes holds me
The chipped, lifeless pale toys
The missing pieces
Will forever bring me joy
But now they have no use
But to be placeholders
Of who i used to be
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