The Box

Here,

I live all alone

in a crowded box that I call home.

The contents of the box

is not just me,

it’s my anger, my distrust, and my misery.

Tears dress the sides,

disappointment covers the bottom,

and sadness fills the cracks.

On the top there is a lock

that’s made of sorrow,

there is no hope,

no better tomorrow.

The box is sealed

with the cement

of forever

designed by a mind

that’s sick,

yet very clever.

The box holds all these things

firmly in place,

because

the person inside

has no voice,

nor a face.

It’s really cramped

and awfully tight,

there is no air

and there is no light.

I push,

I pound,

and I thrash around

with all of my might,

just to get out,

to breathe,

to fight.

To fly away,

to just be free.

To be someone

other than me.

I would like to stretch my limbs,

but I can’t get out

and no one can get in.

If I could manage

to make a hole,

I may be able to tell a story that needs to be told.

The story of a woman who used to be,

a story about the eyes of me.

I guess all alone I must stay.

I wonder why I’m locked away.

In my box, that I call home

I’m tossed,

turned,

battered,

bruised,

and all torn up,

terribly used and abused.

Buried deep beneath

the ground,

all alone,

never to be found.

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Responses

  1. Don’t know what to say except that it seems the writer lives a very tormented life. I don’t understand, but I can try to listen.


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