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Bed of Born Misfortune
April 29, 2016
On a bed made of born misfortune,
one where springs, and achy backs creak,
I find myself wounded and longing for sleep.
I feel my eyes tired, still my mind storms.
Now here,
all I seem to see are fantasies of
what could have been,
what would have been
if I hadn’t given up and come here.
The four white walls that enclose my fear,
have foundations drowning in secrets and delusions.
I feel mine are being stolen and embedded, just the same.
Still, the bodies that walk,
the ones that talk,
but have hollow eyes, are who fuel this institution.
The institution where
sweatshirt strings,
and even
shoelaces
are thought of as lethal weapons.
© Yara K., Bethesda, MD
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This article has 1 comment.
debs said...
on May. 10 2016 at 9:56 pm
So thought provoking - I can picture a scared blank expression on a face as the wander up the down the hospital hallway.
This is a short poem about my experience in a mental hospital.