Scratches On the Wall
I contemplate often,
How everyone seems to be going a little mad.
But then I think: It's not possible for everything to be crazy,
So perhaps it's just me.
Sometimes I hear things they don't hear.
They say it's not normal.
But surely the voices inside my head
Are asking me to listen.
You lose track of the days here,
Whether it's morning or night,
Just a lonely red dot in the corner, blinking,
Monitoring, observing, intruding.
I wish the walls were more colourful
So I could feel a little less like a corpse in a white coffin.
It's suffocating.
I count (but what for? I don't even know when the days start and end) down with marks on the wall,
Lines,
In one of the corners.
There are a lot of lines.
Maybe one day they'll let me out and the voices will stop.
Until then, maybe I'll ponder a little more about whether or not I'm just a little crazy.
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