Walls

At no point in my life have I ever thought of myself as a poet.  Most days I could not write poetry to save my life.  But once in a while – when in a highly charged emotional state – something that resembles poetry drips from the point of my pencil.  None of this has ever been published – or even submitted anywhere – but I thought I’d toss out a piece or two and see if it floats.

WALLS

Oh, how I hate the walls.
Entraping, confining, restricting.
I’ve wandered through their labyrinthic confines all my life,
And never known happiness.
Except once.
For one fleeting moment, a spark of freedom broke in
Like a ray of sunlight in the darkness.
I held it to my breast, kissed it and cherished it.
My heart rejoiced with the feel of it.
And I was whole.
Then it was gone.
Shut out by the seething black-heartedness of those walls,
Sealing out even that one moment of happiness.
In rage, I launched against the walls.
I flailed the walls with my fists until they were torn and bruised.
The stones mocked me with their bloodied stains.
They thrived on my misery.
I withdrew.
Closing in upon myself until there was nothing but myself.
And in my own private world,
I began to plot against them.
How I would cheat them.
I would steal from them their very source of nourishment.
In death I would exit this hall of pain.
As I sunk happily into the dark abyss,
Self-amused with the joke,
My spirit suddenly cried out in anguish.
For I found that death is but a door
Leading to more walls!