Moody

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My parents are concerned about me. They are worried sick that I may have a serious problem. They don’t like it that I keep to myself these days. They tell me not to me so moody, spending so much time behind the closed door of my room. Painting and poetry befit people of gloom, I am told.

But within the comfort of my room, I am myself. Nobody to be compared with, none to compete with. I spend my time reading, writing, painting and dreaming. I enjoy the slow pace of life here. My mom sees this as a danger signal. She thinks that I’d be better off doing the things she has planned so meticulously for me.

Strangely, those are the very things I loathe. Being dragged from piano lessons to dance class to martial arts to public speaking and debate clubs. Participating in endless competitions. Bringing home shining golden trophies that will be showcased in our living room. A spectacular display of my failure. Failure to freely do what I love.

Sometimes I want to scream. I want to tell my parents that I am not one bit excited about their plans for me. That I find solace in the silence of my room, putting my thoughts into words. I want them to know that I am not insane just because I prefer to be on my own. How can I tell them that it is their plans that suffocate me? Plans where I don’t belong.

As we sit with the psychiatrist, my mother goes on and on about how I am so downcast in spite of them being such encouraging parents and me being an achiever. As usual I keep waiting for my turn to talk knowing that it will never come.

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The Open Door

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The jingling of keys and the hesitant creaking of the iron gates herald the arrival of the freedom that I have been longing for all these years.The reasons that drove me into committing that ancient crime seems smudged from memory but the moments of solitude and contemplation I spent within the prison walls remain as fresh as wet ink on paper.

The door opens to a whole new life ahead, but strangely there is no happiness or relief but a looming grey cloud of fear and uncertainty. Thoughts flowed incessantly within the four walls propelled by hope; the padlocks never attempted to confine them as I inked shreds of yellowing paper. But today as I walk out of the open door and merge with the madness outside I hear the click of a lock from somewhere within.

Written for the topic "Open" at Lillie McFerrin Writes

Imprisoned

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Prisoner of thoughts,
a mind-set that rots,
confined and trapped
by  beliefs strapped.
Unable to spill out
of fear and doubt,
secured by locks
the iron gate mocks
at my helplessness
clueless restlessness.
An eternal wait
for a turn of fate,
a saviour with a key
to set me free.
I kept waiting
hoping, berating
the confining lock
a mere mental block,
I worried without pause
about a lock that never was.

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