These rooms, these walls
like arctic white draped, covering
every inch. Sometimes
I smear fingerprints down
until there is a smudge of color
bleeding into the carpet.
These rooms are my insanity.
I count pinholes
from previous tenants
where family pictures once hung;
portraits of smiles, children
hugging and significant others.
Each small void mocks me.
Like a seventh grade bully
who repeated my words with derision.
'Alone, alone------ alone' they say.
Could I scream louder, I would.
Echo my voice against them
until they shatter
splintering into space
and then there would be no doubt.
I would be alone.
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
. screaming not only loneliness but also originality, mixing the whiteness of the innermost of mind with the whiteness of the innermost of a nuthouse room, and yet breaking the uniformity with those mocking pinholes and the erased memories once hanging down on them. who was the previous tenant of the insides of my skull? i find myself asking yet refusing to answer fearing that next to the family pictures there might be also some other, less rejoyceful picture which better stay erased. a thought driving poem.
An impressive piece, my Friend...Good luck in Danna's contest, Sweetie...
