The sun outside is melting.
I suddenly find myself painting with
Pastels and inking with chalk,
The walls look nice now;
They have patterns that
Spiral out of control on them. All different
Colours, shapes and sizes. But
On the same wall.
I sit inside these walls
That my hands ruthlessly slaughtered.
It felt good to embrace
In a dose of insanity. Carelessly scribbling
Like a child that’s just discovered
Its first profanity.
The moon has risen.
In a year these walls will
Be watching another; I will
Be under another roof
In another world of riffle –
Not forgetting the raffle.
My hands will be tied with Art
As my feet will be bitten
With socialites tapping at my door,
Asking if I can spend another minute
Reading their minds and
Caressing their breasts.
I get out of bed to think about
The women I asserted I loved.
The leaves blow and tumble.
I look outside my window and past the patterns
On my walls.
There is the street with the cars
Swiftly travelling. The lamp-posts
In their shining cages, illuminating
The pavements below. The rows of
Flats that remind me of solitary confinement.
Still I pace back to my bed and sit
On its soft contours to look at my insanely
Driven creation. The world I created on
My walls. It makes me wander –
Whilst smiling –
Whether I have even lived at all?
Mary X.
Mary X
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/four-walls/
