Screaming, shouting,
Slamming, slapping,
Calling, the whole nine yards.
The wake of violence
In the heart of innocence
Makes a jail for those condemned.
It's all my fault
The lawyers proclaim
And I cover my ears 'cause I might go insane.
But what if they're right
And what if I'm wrong?
What if I've been mistaken all along?
The witnesses false
Point a finger my way
And the judge is believing whatever they say.
What can I do?
He won't listen to me!
I'm going to die in the worst tragedy!
The jury writes down
What they think is right,
But they have found darkness in what's called the light.
I'm so alone
In what they say I've done,
And I can see in their eyes that they're having fun.
The guards take me away
To the prison once more,
And the echoes will haunt me as they shut the door.
The shadows surround me
In a corner so small,
And they can't hear me screaming so far down the hall.
The warden's tormenting
His jeers, taunts, and tease,
And I'm begging for someone to come rescue me.
But this you don't know,
While I think that I'm dead,
All of this prison is stuck in my head.
YOU ARE READING
The Art of Confusion
PoesiaDiana Miller is schizophrenic...or at least she thinks so. She has never been clinically diagnosed because her father believes that mental illness is demon possession, and she knows he would never take her to a psychiatrist. To cope with her inner c...
