A thousand finger prints ago,
I found myself in a white room
with windows I knew
I could never fit through,
and the wall covered in pictures,
one in particular of a field
with a rainbow in the background
to convince me things would get better.
They were staged just like she was
and the questions she asked me
trying to pick apart my bones,
and see which set of pills could
put me back together and
staring out tiny windows
I was invaded with questions
I didn't dare answer to this stranger
and that only made me seem sadder
so medication kept an eye on me
everyday and every night
balancing out the chemicals in my brain,
but withering me down to an
emotionless waste of space,
a silent echo behind plywood,
that didn't give a damn about anything
not even getting better;
My life had become staged and
I was a rainbow in the background,
framed and hanged on the wall.