I’m Not Insane But They Won’t Let Me Free

Surrounded by white, velvet cushioned walls,

overlaid by speckled ceiling,

pale floor, cold white as iced snow;

looking beyond meshed-screened windows,

seeing others free to roam this city of pain,

wondering what they think, what they feel.

Wondering why they choose to be out there,

instead of here, where people like me are safe.

Safe to think thoughts without harassments.

Safe to utter ideas without ridicule.

The other day I wrote a book of intervals;

should be on the Best Seller’s list forever.

It’s a story about the morning dew,

and the morning don’ts.

About the leaves on a tree,

of others who leaves us behind.

Cars weaving in and out of traffic,

and dealers who traffic their drugs.

Then came the wimps, losers, and cry-baby’s,

and I wrote about the abandoned baby who cried.

How easy it is for man and woman to get a piece,

how hard it is to achieve world peace.

I had to stop;

my staff of white-sheeted workers

stopped by to make sure I stay healthy.

I have to take my medication,

so I don’t become ill.

Once I have, they are happy with me,

and no one has ill-feelings.

I like them when they are happy with me;

maybe I will give them a raise.

Getting back to my book,

the ending is really there.

One day I wake up and find out,

I was never really here.