The White Room
The White Room
Blinding and bright: fluorescent light;
It makes the eyes water and sting,
And deafening silence drums on my ears, making them dial and ring.
Or am I the only one here who thinks these ridiculous things?
That the government fears all the truths that I hear;
That I can taste the vice of the proud,
And the ground underfoot is not really there
Because my head's high up in the clouds?
Or that the frigid fan's blow turns wall-pads to snow
And freeze me in place when I touch
The beds made of stone that bruise all my bones;
That's why I don't like it here much.
(Yet I have to stay, 'cause I don't have a say
With all the insurance and such).
But no one will listen; no one understands
Not a man or a woman dares wonder
If the ravings of a single madman
Could put the whole sane world under.
For who wants to ponder the weird and the strange;
Who wants to leave what seems true?
No one seeks the thoughts of the deranged
Though here the deranged are sane, too.
Are the nurses in blue imprisoned like us
With their expressions etched in stone?
How long has it been since they ever smiled
Or got to go rest in their homes?
(I'd call their houses to find out the answer,
But I'm not allowed near the phone).
It is hard to love what it unloved;
Impossible to see like the blind,
But being strapped tight in this room of white
Makes me think I've not lost my mind.
Could it be those authorities who chose
To trap me here in this prison,
Unable to see as clearly as me;
Is it they who have lost their vision?
So I consider as I wait for freedom,
For someday, Insanity will get them.
Copyright © Tara Andre