White Walls

It is waiting.

It sits frozen and shivering in the corner

With milky, scarred, blind eyes that see for nothing

And ears that hear for naught.

Its mouth is but a jagged, open wound below the sleek, near invisible nose

And Its skin lay wrinkled and dead about Its wrists

Where sharp bones spear the surface.

Its mangled hands and clawed fingers drape over the collarbone

In an attempt to stay the ferocious clacking of its yellowed teeth by weak strangulation.

And it is small, frail, dainty, and vicious

Striking at all whose violence It has not touched

But it has no resolve.

It wants to die

So that It may hide away in a cove long forgotten

Where food won't be forced into Its stomach

Where sterile and padded walls won't surround It

Where demons in white won't scrutinize Its mentality

And where It can thrive.

So It,

The bone sack alone in the corner,

Rocking back and forth with blind, wild eyes,

Shaking a head with dead ears and a broken, limp mouth,

Awaits the day

That It dies.

Reviews

[Tai Ryens]

Is it particularly troublesome that I imagined a butterfly upon finishing this poem? Its white, padded room symbolizing a chrysalis in which it emerges; always missing its previous form as a caterpillar when it did not have what you describe a "mouth but a jagged, open wound below the sleek?"
Nevertheless, I quite enjoyed this certain longing from whence rebellious actions could be committed. I believe this a nostalgia for a life that once was, where they were not restricted by others, and I'm probably wrong anyways~ hehe.. I enjoyed though.

[Riley Bray]

That's really interesting! I never thought of it that way but you could be absolutely right. I always love hearing your insight, it never fails to amaze me. Thank you. :)