Time Is A Series Of Boxes Poem by James Merchant
Time Is A Series Of Boxes
Always constricted
In tight and cramped spaces
Unable to stretch
Breathe, sleep or relax
There is always a thought eating at the edges
Of this paranoid mind
It ricochets off of colours
Heavily lit and cheerful and bizarre,
Laugh and take it all in.
In. In. In.
These corners still bottle me.
I can see the colours
Through the smallest of peepholes
I lap them up with my eagerness, my dog's tongue
And let them murder me
Before my madness does
Confined to a space that is filling
With violent waters
I can't breathe
I cannot breathe
I cannae breathe
I can't breathe
Please help me
I am okay
and shouldn't be
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/3/2024 8:25:27 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Not madness, no. Despondency, perhaps. Feeling closed in, in, in. Thank you, thank you for submitting more poems (both appealing) . This one, I think, is one of your best. I would rather you drop the last five lines. Or at least one of them. Maybe conclude I can't breathe I cannot breathe I can't breathe Please help me Please, please I am okay and shouldn't be But, all in all, a very commendable effort. You ought to move toward publication - or have you already? At least keep sharing your work w/ PoemHunter!