Dreaded horrible walls of darkness, depravity, and gloom.
How long must I stare at your grimace and snarled expression?
How many times must I feel your thorned and splintered arms,
Reaching to grasp me, and hold me, as your forsaken and forlorn prisoner
Of unrequited hopes and dreams and schemes
And unfulfilled plans that were conceived in a more
Sedate and pleasurable time of the past;
But were never allowed their gestation to reach fruition,
And therefore were never birthed. And all because of you,
You dreaded, horrible walls.
Each day that I stare at you, I can feel the joyful song that
My heart always sings slowly changing into a more somber,
Morbid strain. No longer do I hear the sparkling, delightful
Voice of that inner child, but only the screech of monotone from
someone who seems to be wretched and tormented.
And I wonder. Is this me?
Is this really me? Is this who I am? Is this what the faces of those
That gaze upon me would view, should I drop this mask that
I wear? This mask of disguises that presents itself to the
Opinions and perfections, or imperfections of the accepted
Norms of society? To the politically correct of our culture?
Does the prisoner always attach some fondness to that which
Has held him captive?
Ah! How I have grown to love you, my beautiful walls of safety and security!
Oh to continue to rest in your blissfully delightful arms of comfort,
To feel you surrounding me, as I snuggle under my blankets and
Nestle my head in a soft feather pillow.
You always welcome me, my walls of Pleasure.
And you hide me from that cold and callous world
That wants to see me as they desire me to be.
But, here, with you, Walls, my gentle fortress.
I take my rest. I can be me.

Leah Wilson © 2005