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In Poetry or Lullaby

There are strange noises happening in my apartment. Voices groaning in pain, and crying in anguishing angst. I called the police, as I just thought my depression is talking in hallucination. The police arrived in time. I told him about the experience. “There is nothing we can do to help you. I am not hearing any voices!” He was looking around. And I was still hearing the voices. Supplication within. Supplication without. Supplication in an area claiming to be in the indigenous area. The different “INDIANS” than brown-colored Asian Indians. And this is Death bed. I am selfish to own only me, there. And this is not an emotional blackmail. Not to you, not to them. I am none other than just another among a mass, among a crowd, staring at life. Poetry. Lullaby. Whatever.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022




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Date: 7/3/2022 3:45:00 PM
Thoughts, mixed in with truth Tamanna, that sometimes seem so convincing, we think are real. You have expressed this perfectly. God bless you and give you warm thoughts of peace...
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Tamanna Ferdous
Date: 7/3/2022 3:50:00 PM
Yes, I wish I could reply to you in a better thread than this poem. It is based on true events. People need oxygen these days , way later than a safer internet. No Worries, I am doing fine. Thanks.