Withered Rose

...Ashes, ashes, they all fall DOWN...
2005-10-04 02:51:28 (UTC)

Hospital Gowns (acrostic poem)

Hold my hand, I don't know if I can take it, not on my own,
at least. I really could use that comforting squeeze, as
the needle sinks deep into me.

Open the door; let me out of this place, please. I want to
go home. I want to go home. I just want to go.

Sick of hearing my own sad story, repeating things I never
truly remembered in the first place. I have no words left.
Figure it out yourself.

Peaceful seclusion sounds so inviting, as all these white
lab coats crowd around me, stroking, pressing, and
prodding. Please don't lay another hand on me. I think I'll
just close my eyes, but I cannot sleep.

Incredible how dreadfully special I am. A mystery. An
experiment. What is the point of all of this?

Tell me, will you be the one to help me, sir? Will you be
different, miss? What did you say *your* specialty is?

Alls I do is lay there, feeling the pain, embarrassment,
wrapped in insecurity, muttering a few "your welcomes," and
wincing a smile in courtesy.

Let me go home now, I beg of you, I am exhausted, already. I
know, pitiful. Who I am. Who am I? I am who? Confused,
again.

*

God, can You hear me now? Are Your mighty ears too filled
with wax?

Oh Lord, what are trying to say? Are you even real?

When will this nightmare be over? When will this problem
come close to solved?

Nearly unbearable, yet I live on. I live on. I. Live. On.

So worry not, m'loves, I am all right. I shall survive, and
even attempt to thrive in this one-time life of mine.


©
....withered..rose.....




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