[Door] Bell

Slam the door.
Trapped? Not me.
Which side? You decide which side I'm on.
Inside is outside where thinking makes it not so.
Air breathes easy when even hurt is certain.
[The corridor with half-open doors--terror.]

Sticks and stones may break my bones
But words go deep.
Don't speak. Throw rocks.
We'll pretend we know each other.
Then we'll leave.
Without even saying good-bye.

Yet doors hang on verbal hinges.
Say so.
I don't know
Any other way.
Release me.
Cut my heart in half,
But at least
I'll be free.

******************

Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity. T. S. Eliot

I think poetry is catharsis...