the room for which we are the doors * 3/21/14

I am the door that never closes on who comes through my daydreaming eyes. I am the glass door that faintly reflects those who split me in pieces when I do not tell the truth. I am an invisible door, but I am only a door. What is this room? I am the door broken down. I am the door hung backwards to those who subtly signal me to cross my arms or legs the other way. I am the door flapping in the wind to attract those pranksters who set me off with laughter. I too am these doors. What is this room? Are you a door wanting to get fingerprints of those who keep your dark side so unseen? Are you a door that jams? Are you a door that is often over-gripped by those who pry open the rest of you with guilt and shame? Silently are you some of these doors? What is this room? Are you a door wishing to be locked? Are you a door rotting with abuse? Are you the door apparently stuck? Are you any of these damned doors?  But what is this room? Is she the door that feels hollow to those who physically abuse her presence by ignoring her simple needs? Is she the door thrown open? Is she the door with no key? Is she the door that wants to be slammed shut? Why is she one of these doors? And, more importantly, what is this room? Is he the door embarrassed by those who have his eyes, first look away? Is he a door that is bumped into and bullied?  Would he be one of these doors? Once again, what is this room? Is he the door with no frame to those who separate him into unsolvable riddles? Is he the door forced open by those who can’t understand why he doesn’t understand what he does? Enigmatically, is he one of these these doors? So, what is this room? Are they doors nailed shut to those who stole their inner joy when they were of innocence? Are they the doors often banged open or shut? Are they the doors that close on the fingers of those who reward them for keeping love in sealable jars? Wildly, ponderously, are they one of these doors? Please, tell me, what is this room? Are they splattered doors? Are they doors oiled by those who entice them into perceptions that darken their souls?  Are they the doors revolving with those who drive them to a level of excellence empty of enjoyment? Do they dare to be any of these doors? Pray tell, what is, this room? Are we the doors opening and closing, opening and closing to those who keep us starved in the exile of busyness? Are we doors sometimes un-openable to those who feed us to strengthen our spirits? Are we the doors pretending to be elevator doors for those who convince us that people are strangers? Are we somehow maybe, one of these doors? And what in hell, is this room? Are we doors worn down? Are we the doors without hinges for those who make love to us though we continue to feel alone? Are we doors that eventually fall off? Are we doors often leaned against? Are we the doors hung upside down for those who fool our senses into fondness and play? Are we ever unintendedly one of these doors?    What is, I mean, if we are any of these doors, what is the room for which we are, in any way, shape, or form, any one of these damn doors?