The Myth of Silence

I wrote on paper
And was called a poet
I wrote on walls
And was asked to wait
On a chair nailed to the floor
In a cold, cold white room
Where the only sound was of my breath;
No different from a writer’s womb 
So I sat in the pleated emptiness 
With a glass of water left to precipitate 
Watching the walls seduce me to sadness
When the pendulum peeled an eight 
And in came this ladybug green
Glasses carved on the tip of her nose
She had grey pad and a bald blue pen
And a red ring in the shape of rose
‘Ahem, ahem’ She said ‘Ahem, ahem’
And I coughed and cleared my throat
She looked at me for a second
Then this is what she wrote:
‘The subject is kind of rude
He has no manners so to speak
He sits like a beggar on his throne
A man of power sold in sale to the weak’
It made no sense, nonsense, I tell you 
For she was no poet for god’s own sake
She was too tidy to have chaos inside
And that is how I knew she was fake
‘The subject now seems annoyed 
He is watching me with furrowed brows 
As if I have stolen something of his
And now pretending that everyone knows’
Ah the audacity of this usurper 
Who claims my kingdom as her own
I have pieces of paper in my pocket 
And a dozen verses to loan
‘The subject is trying to smile 
And I am feeling all sick and ill 
There is wrong with his mind
He says naught but I can feel’
She knows nothing of my madness 
Of how it hurts to sit and smile
For only writing on the wall
I pretend to die once in a while
‘The subject has tears in his eyes
Maybe my saying something will change
But what should I say at this point
That will not make him seek revenge’
The fool, the fool is writing 
And what a caricature does she draw
Looking from behind a pair of glasses 
She writes what she thinks she saw
‘The subject does not comply 
To any form of my treatment 
So must be treated in harsher terms 
Or in an asylum must be sent’
Oh I did snatch her pen and pad
And wrote down my own choice 
Before you judge what others have said
First make sure if they even have a voice…