"tick... tick... tick... "
The grandfather clock ticking away life down the hall slowly fades from my mind.
I've made it a game to block out the pulsating tick, and then regaining awareness of it. I've won it every single time.
The fading blue light from the full moon is providing the only light when I write this. And it's not much.
The only window in this room is about the size of a pillow and it's at the top of the monotone colored wall.
So there isn't much time to write at night.
They say I shouldn't be doing this because it supposedly hurts my eyes, but I don't feel anything.
Plus I can't write during the day because those two little pills that they give me makes me real tired. So I stay up at night.
It's actually pretty peaceful here. Everyone is really nice and there's no chaos. There
Was this one woman that kept complaining at night that the dog in her room needed to leave because it wouldn't let her sleep.
I guess they took the dog away, because she stopped talking, but I never heard it bark.
All of the people that visit me say that I have poetic heart. But I've never written a poem quite like she had.
They say that I'm a true artist. But never have I seen a face quite so beautiful as hers.
They say that I sound so nice when I talk, but her captivating voice blocks anything that makes sense. Such as that, how could I sound nice? I don't talk.
The rude people, like the man always laying in the bed next to me, call me crazy. Yeah I have fun but I'm not crazy.
They put me in here because something happened when I didn't see you that mid-December day, I can't remember what happened.
They put me in here because I fell. I'm not sure if they mean that in the literal sense, because I know I fell in love. Does that count?
I don't remember anything from that day but they say that I was found reading some of your poems. I don't see how that was bad?
But then they said that as I was reading I was walking somewhere.
They didn't tell me where I was headed to but it must have been somewhere I couldn't go because they said that I should never go back there.
I had your poems by memory, much like your face and voice, so I was just reciting them. The one about spending a penny for someone's thoughts, I love that one. It's nice.
But, I can't remember them anymore. That one, though, I still remember. The rest are gone, I hope I find them again.
Okay the white women are coming back now, they might take away my pen so I love you. I hope this gets to you. I'll go back to playing the game.