I miss the straight walls,
The familiar enclosure,
That encapsulated me
For the longest time,
The sound of wood,
My fingers clicked upon,
To switch my mental stiffness;
From anxiety to fear to depression,
To suspense to horror to seclusion
I could control by my fingertips,
All I needed to do was,
Change the pattern of rhythm;
Those six wooden surfaces,
As close as I could not move or breathe,
Was my home,
– Sweet home,
That was where I was buried,
Since I was born,
I miss that lack of need,
To be alive,
Or to be dead,
I miss my home,
My inertia,
Where I needed nothing,
Where everything was in my control,
Why don’t you understand?
I was better dropped
Better dead.

Image Artist: Helenadam

- Helenadam
– Helenadam

2 Comments Add yours

  1. globalunison says:

    I hear you and i know what you mean.. No matter how much control we excercise, our world has to fall apart someday sometime..

    Reading you after such a long time, welcome back and your poems are amazing (as always).


    1. Personally I don’t like being confined. The ‘box’ should have limitless walls.

      Thank you!

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