The Dirthouse

My body doesn't grow in all these colors
But the mind- it keeps on pushing
Past the faded cushion or the television
Or the window (one of many)
The walls are white on the other side
I cannot imagine them when
There is no white in my eyes

The floors are never clean
But I've learned not to cringe
I hardly blink at the lamplight flickering
On--off--on--off
In the corner I'll be silent
Because it is just that: a corner
And there I have no where to be

It's alright to go untouched by the sun
After all, it might miss me entirely
And here in the dirthouse
I've come to love my dirty things
The dirty shapes, the dirty colors--
So many-- too many at first
But I'll never get bored

It's the purple arm or the red eye--
Just red, no white--
That leaves me feeling comfortable
Only once have I been stifled
Or really staggering for breath
But then, once is everyday
So I'll not breathe with lack of Time