I'm going mad

Sitting in this room

Confined by these white walls

Pressing me in

Again and again.

I'm tired of these jackets,

Which I am forced

To wear every day.

White isn't my favorite jacket color,

But apparently it's all they have,

So I suppose it'll do.

The worse thing though,

Is squeezing I must endure,

While wearing this cloth prison.

It presses my arms in,

Unable to move,

Unable to move,

Unable to move.

They bind me to this bed,

My head pressed down on the stiff pillow,

My body suffering with each breath.

My arms are fastened to cold metal chains,

I am only out of my bonds for my meals,

Which seem to grow farther and farther apart every day.

I want to get out of this place,

To go back to my life,

If it's still there.

Have my friends waited for me?

Is my family still at home?

I wonder how my children are doing,

Now in their twenties.

I wonder if my husband still loves me,

Even though I have been absent for so many years.

You see,

One day,

These men came to my door,

Pushed me in a cart,

A cross, blood red, painted on the sides.

It was a long ride,

To the office I went,

Where someone asked me questions.

I did not answer.

They pushed me and pushed me,

Again and again.

But I thought it a joke.

Why ask a woman,

With fully grown children,





It did not deserve a reply.

But the next day they brought me home.

I thought it was the end,

Of this foolish prank,

It was not.

It was not.

I was not allowed to stay,

To sleep in my bed,

To eat in the kitchen,

To weed the backyard.

They took me back,

As soon as I had said hello.

They tore me away,

From my loves,

From my life,

From myself.

I returned to my prison,

And that's where I am now.




I could have done so much more with my life,

The time that I had it,

At least.

I had been selfish then,

Not caring for anyone but myself.

I pampered and primped,

I enjoyed the luxury I was able to snatch.

Not once,

Not never,

Did I realized what others had then.


That was what they had.

It was not their fault,

Not at all.

Would it be your fault if your parents had not paid for your schooling?

Not allowing you to start a decent career,

Later on in life?


Not their fault.

Not their fault.

I could have helped them,

I really could,

I passed them every day on the street,

My fur coat wrapped tightly around my frail shoulders,

While they froze in the December air.

I could have given that coat to them,

To ease them of their pain.

Or at least to give them the corn which I enjoyed,

Practically shoving the fact in their faces,

That I was eating food,



Food which they could not obtain.

I could have been kinder,

I could have been selfless,

I could have been better,

I could have been caring,

But I was not.

There is no passage back in time,

No opportunity for me to alter my actions,

So long ago.

What is done is done,

And there is no turning back,

Though I wish that there was.

All I can do is sit and regret,

In this cell,

In this cage,

In this prison,

Going mad,

Confined by these white walls,

Pressing me in,

Again and again.