The Seventh Room
The ending is water’
Whispered a crow,
As I step slow—Out, out of the asylum.
My body, which isn’t mine, dragged all way,
Needles falling on the grey floor,
Some I took off—
Others were inserted for too long.
Hideous as a monster;
The survivor of the one thousand years bloodshed
Finally managed an escape, with a book and papers’ shreds
At the end of the aisle of patients’ beds,
I know there is a staircase leading to an exit
I ran downward.
I am almost out;
I could smell the water and see its drips on the floor,
I dreamt that I felt the sands of the seashore touching my feet,
And that I saw the moulted feathers of gulls
Almost there, I thought!
A sea that shall wash the years of weep,
I dreamt of slipping among the river’s reeds,
With the palm of my hands covered in leaves—
I reach out,
But there come the thieves,
All is gone—gone, gone. A dream is gone.
They close the doors,
Catch the mad who tried to touch the shore!
I succumb. I am numb.
They locked me up in the Seventh Room,
A white room with an iron bed,
Pictures of previous patients hung on the wall,
A trained doctor and a saint came out of the door
I could never run even if I crawl.
Present as I am—in front of the ones who created me
The men of virtues—
They unwrap me,
Naked as I first came;
I had nothing to impress them with;
These are my hands
My pale skin, my faint hair;
Bare and unpolluted for their entertainment.
A woman of many others like I
A woman is never born anew. I cry.
They had me sewn together with a glue
Stitched up—with wires and threads,
I was made out of corpses’ skins
And fed lies in my dreaming beds
They gave me a name,
And taught me how to live in shame
I swallowed it whole.
They operate. I am paralysed.
Like a cadaver: only I see and hear.
Another animal experiment
The crowd shoves to see.
It’s done. I am re-soaked into the plague.
Or so they believe.
Five feet and four inches tall,
I inherited the nothingness—
I breathe oxygen and occupy space.
I exist. I exist. I exist.
I learned how to drink the poison
And not die—
The trick is one swallow at a time.
Shackles and pills
Do it smiling—do it until you become a hard rime.
Wired to my roof. Threaded to a man above,
They call him God. But I call him my puppeteer.
They called this a life, I call it an act.
Another chapter on stage.
I dream—
Chaos is voiceless.
I thrust back to the sea, the waves rise and swell,
They run to my lungs and fill me,
I could drown
I could possibly die!
But I exist—
Somewhere. Elsewhere. As a full moon.
All shall crack asunder
All shall dissolve in
And I shall end—
In water.
Preferido o celebrado por...
C.R.Stanger
7a....ok you need more poems...really you have a style i just ...idk its intense..every poet that i really like has a different style ..they stand out in the style they have. ...i love it and i want more of your poetry ..it gives me goose flesh..hah...chills...
Malak Alrashed
7aI swear the moment I read your comments, I just smile! I'm very honoured that someone whom I love to read is actually reading my stuff and likes them! Thanks a lot. And I'm sorry that I'm not writing many poems. The fact is I am now trying to practise writing Arabic poems, so...that's why. But I am for sure coming back and will be writing more poems. Soon, hopefully. Thanks again.
Vic Evora
3aQuite intense. Yet readable and flowing. Like.
Vic Evora
3aQuite intense. Yet readable and flowing. Like.
Vic Evora
3aWishing you'd write more often.