The sun outside is melting. <br />I suddenly find myself painting with <br />Pastels and inking with chalk, <br /> <br />The walls look nice now; <br />They have patterns that <br />Spiral out of control on them. All different <br />Colours, shapes and sizes. But <br />On the same wall. <br /> <br />I sit inside these walls <br />That my hands ruthlessly slaughtered. <br />It felt good to embrace <br />In a dose of insanity. Carelessly scribbling <br />Like a child that’s just discovered <br />Its first profanity. <br /> <br />The moon has risen. <br />In a year these walls will <br />Be watching another; I will <br />Be under another roof <br />In another world of riffle – <br />Not forgetting the raffle. <br />My hands will be tied with Art <br />As my feet will be bitten <br /> <br />With socialites tapping at my door, <br />Asking if I can spend another minute <br />Reading their minds and <br />Caressing their breasts. <br />I get out of bed to think about <br />The women I asserted I loved. <br /> <br />The leaves blow and tumble. <br />I look outside my window and past the patterns <br />On my walls. <br /> <br />There is the street with the cars <br />Swiftly travelling. The lamp-posts <br />In their shining cages, illuminating <br />The pavements below. The rows of <br />Flats that remind me of solitary confinement. <br /> <br />Still I pace back to my bed and sit <br />On its soft contours to look at my insanely <br />Driven creation. The world I created on <br />My walls. It makes me wander – <br />Whilst smiling – <br />Whether I have even lived at all? <br /> <br /> <br />Mary X.<br /><br />Mary X<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/four-walls/
