Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site


Poetry By: Clare Hill

A poem from my forthcoming collection, to be published by Survivors' Poetry. This poem was first published in Trespass Magazine.

Submitted:Dec 2, 2011    Reads: 11    Comments: 3    Likes: 3   


My clothes are buttoned wrong.
They say I do it myself
in a fugue state,
but this is no toccata
and I am no Vanessa Mae.
They lie.
I see them when I am asleep
pulling at my clothes
while I hover by the ceiling.
I have yet to master the art
of swimming through concrete,
so am just as trapped
out of my body
as when I'm in my head.
The straps binding my body
are matched by invisible chains
welded on by medication
to restrain my personality.
I am thinking of writing
to the Queen
to ask the one with curly hair
to intervene on my behalf
and maybe play 'Let Me Out'
to free me from this room.
I have an appointment
to go flying with Richard Branson
but they won't let me leave
or die,
There are people here
who scream and fight;
I just float, hoping that
they will leave a window open
and a set of bolt cutters handy.


| Email this story Email this Poetry | Add to reading list


About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.