My Mood as Room by Calvin May

I suffocate in the heat of my pitch black room.
I cannot find the door.
And cut my feet on the broken glass strewn
All over the floor.
But I am not blind.
I stare endlessly at the memories
Boiling behind my eyes.
And though they make me bleed
Sitting amongst them grants me
Greater peace.
Than I would find
If I stumbled through the door
Escaped the memories strewn
All over the floor.
Only to scream “Why?”
Upon discovering that all of life
Is not just any kind of room
But an engine room
That turns seconds into suffering
One tick tock at a time.


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Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion—broadly speaking—of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.


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