enter a white room
white victorian furniture lines the white walls
white frames holding white art
hang beneath a white chandelier
while the gleaming white floor
reflects white light
back onto the white walls and ceiling
i stand alone
in the center of this white room
my pale limbs are the only pinch of color
streaming from beneath my white nightgown
it's funny
you never seem to notice your breath
until its unsteady pace
becomes your only companion
(as it was mine in that lonely room)
as white blends into white
my heart pounds vigorously within my chest
and i feel the walls begin to close in around me
a tortured pain arises
as i attempt a scream
yet nothing emerges
but white noise from my lips
i charge towards a towering white wall
but the closer i get
the further back it retreats
so far, in fact
that i can no longer make out
the white sailboat on the white lake
from the white picture inside the white frame
hanging evenly on the white wall
as i now exist
(a pigmented dot in a white universe)
i am lost and alone and anxious
the walls have long since gone
taking with them the white furniture
and any hope of return
to my colorful past
so here i sit
writing on white paper with a white pen
a poem in white ink
(dare anyone tries to decipher it)
about a white room in a white world
that has trapped this pigmented girl
in its cold, white grasp
(but other than that,
death isn't too bad)
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC
enter a white room
white victorian furniture lines the white walls
white frames holding white art
hang beneath a white chandelier
while the gleaming white floor
reflects white light
back onto the white walls and ceiling
i stand alone
in the center of this white room
my pale limbs are the only pinch of color
streaming from beneath my white nightgown
it's funny
you never seem to notice your breath
until its unsteady pace
becomes your only companion
(as it was mine in that lonely room)
as white blends into white
my heart pounds vigorously within my chest
and i feel the walls begin to close in around me
a tortured pain arises
as i attempt a scream
yet nothing emerges
but white noise from my lips
i charge towards a towering white wall
but the closer i get
the further back it retreats
so far, in fact
that i can no longer make out
the white sailboat on the white lake
from the white picture inside the white frame
hanging evenly on the white wall
as i now exist
(a pigmented dot in a white universe)
i am lost and alone and anxious
the walls have long since gone
taking with them the white furniture
and any hope of return
to my colorful past
so here i sit
writing on white paper with a white pen
a poem in white ink
(dare anyone tries to decipher it)
about a white room in a white world
that has trapped this pigmented girl
in its cold, white grasp
(but other than that,
death isn't too bad)
