The symbolic portrait of a passed musician,

Or a movie poster of a film that received plummeting reviews hangs on my walls

The thumbtack holes they leave are like the impressions they leave on me

Because each poster, a memory

A cheap 99-cent poster of Johnny Cash

Or a portrait of Tim Curry’s legs from Rocky Horror

The unrolling of a new band poster fresh from the concert.

The smell of beer still has yet to be lifted

From my totem from an AC/DC concert.

The space above my mirror is reserved for a new Bob Dylan poster in November.

My Grand Budapest Hotel sits like God,

Overlooking my desk.

The eyes of the protagonist, Zero, looks over me with a content smirk.

The feeling that a celebrity is contributing to your memories

That you are contributing to their legacy.

The possession of a poster closes the gap between

The famous and the fan.

They have contributed to me.

Their posters are my memories.

The walls are me.

The thumbtack holes will be there

long after anyone remembers what poster was there.

The holes will still be there after I move up and away

Even if I cant remember what poster I had put up,

The holes will still be there.

My posters are my tangible memories.

I look at them and see an event not a price tag.

Any event that made my heart pitter patter

Because usually it is at flat line.

My walls are me

The addition of a new poster is the addition of character

And amongst the awe of running around the earth

Trying to find more posters,

We find what life is worth living for.