The Room

I’m sitting in the room,

Dark, cold and dirty.

The walls are soft,

So they can’t hurt me.

I have wraps around my ankles,

wrists and arms.

I have clouds in my head,

So it won’t do me harm.

No talking, no eating.

I’m wasting away.

This is what I wanted.

I won’t last another day.

They come through the mirror,

Yelling and screaming.

Saying somethings wrong,

Crying, I’m not breathing.

Confused, I react.

Kicking and screaming.

My body won’t move,

And they can’t seem to hear me.

Not knowing what’s wrong,

The table gets cold.

Staring at the walls,

I watch them grow old.

Slowly it came,

I got what I desired.

No longer in pain,

And no longer tired.

I’m still in the room,

And of it, I’ve grown fond.

Laying on the table,

I’m under its bond.

Reviews

[VALORMORE DE PLUME]

I like the potency of your poetic voice. Cloaked intent gives more pause to consider alternative impressions. Those who play in your labyrinth will eventually come out the other side; smiling and relieved, or frightened and bewildered.