WHITE ROOM
A room so pure and white
walls that hold secrets and lies
a place where sleep is deprive
agony present in their eyes.
I went there
a place you wouldn't want to be near
hallways filled with unpleasant memories
covered with lost souls bounded by stories.
I met a stranger dress in white
smiling with a face so bright
sit and tell me your story, he mutter
well take a look in my head, I whisper.
Weekly, he became a habit
stranger become friends
walls crumbling, ice melting
emotions surfacing.
We talked about anything
anything turns to something
he told me to write
a pieces of poem every night.
Got three readers whom I trust
soul filled words of my past
he read my words the first time
and said, you're an art with poetry inside.
Today, I'll meet him again
the white room's waiting
a friend in white's waving
he said, hey! want some coffee?
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Comments1
being strong enough
to seek the help we need
is a huge factor
in curating, the trajectory of our lives...
(good for you! thanks for sharing)
'you won’t see them often
for wherever the crowd is
they
are not.
those odd ones, not
many
but from them
come
the few
good paintings
the few
good symphonies
the few
good books
and other
works.
and from the
best of the
strange ones
perhaps
nothing.
they are
their own
paintings
their own
books
their own
music
their own
work.)
from 'The strongest of the strange ones'
by Charles Bukowski
( http://www.avocadosweet.com/the-strongest-of-the-strange-ones-by-charles-bukowski/ )
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