Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XXI

Ah yes, that first trip back home after going away to college as a freshman. How much one grows in a few short months. I was so over my old life. I was a new person. I was reborn. I though Virginia Woolf and I were kindred sprirts. Blech. Note the interesting line break and punctuation choices.

This room has shrunk, it's now too small for me.
Pieces of my life hang grimly on the walls I
painted much too bright when I was just a girl.
And my mother said I'd grow to hate the color.
Grown I have, and the walls now blind my eyes.
This used to be comfort, my haven from the
insanity that was a mere two rooms away.
This room is much too small for a queen-sized bed
And the pile of clothes that have become my ineffectual rug.
And all the trivial things that are too precious
to throw away or might be of some use someday.
The telephone has been ripped out, the TV is slowly
rotting in a basement far away, but it's still my room.
We all need our own room, and maybe, Virginia, you
could have found some inspiration here. Perhaps you
were a better woman than the one I have become.
The air is thick with smoke and memories, the
clutter and the blinding walls are maddening, the
silence is deafening and the ghosts come out from beneath
my bed to play. This room is not my comfort anymore.
This room has shrunk, it's much too small for me.

Want more? Here's Volume XX.