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…
