In a cold room in the basement,
Empty green beer bottles on the table,
One untidy bed,
Few furniture.
I stand in a nearly naked black dress, barefoot,
Feeling the cold seep from the ground into my feet,
Settling in my bones
And walks on my skin like white ants.
The floor resembles a chessboard,
With white and black squares
But with only one single piece.
When I step forward,
I move the only piece here,
I play with the piece that is me,
And I always win.
But what does winning mean without the possibility of losing?
YOU ARE READING
Taste Of Anger
PoetryI choose anger instead of sorrow I prefer madness over sadness I never want to be a victim. cover © : SIILDA
