Fluffy Bunnies

In My Room...

In my room, I sleep. Having lost interest in all of my hobbies, I pass long hours in blackness to avoid the boredom that inevitably leads to thoughts.

In my room, I dream. With my eyes open I think of how many people I hate and how many of my 'friends' I no longer care about. How my neck feels empty, without a friend and how I should give it one made of thick twine.

In my room, I hide. Away from the faces of people who I once thought had no fault and now have too many. From duties and things that would keep me functioning as a normal person. From family and friends who only seem to make minutes of convocation stretch for hours.

In my room, I write. Write down my thoughts, feelings and adventures I want to someday achieve but I know that I never will. Writing stories for other people to enjoy and to share with the world. But even writing has no peace for me now.

In my room, I draw. But the pictures never turn out right and I only end up with a forest of paper, scrunched into little balls that I should clean up later. But I never do. And when the art turns out decently, I scold myself for not having completed it better, faster, with not stolen materials. Nothing is ever good enough.

In my room, I sing. But all I hear are the sounds of a caged bird putting on a show that no one ever hears. Becoming a chore that I must do instead of the greatest pleasure in my life, that is only to bested by younger people who look better and sound better but have no soul in it. Whose performances bring you to tears but though what they have done, that I can't.

Not in my room, I am happy. I smile and laugh and joke with everyone. I am the perfect person. Pretty, carefree and hardworking. I am fake.