Every breath I take is a labour
of love, for this body, I must
sustain. When I look at it,
it seems happy in this world.
But I, I would like to go.
I've stopped inventing purpose,
reasons, goals and dreams.
I just don't have the ingredients,
anymore. I tried the usual
exits, but they all led me back
to where I am, to my body's
relief. So, now, I paint black doors
on walls; doors that just won't open.
I've got to get out. I stretched it
as far as I can go. As a
last resort, I tried to look
for God who, they say, is in
my heart. But all I found was
a long obituary about
his timely demise. 'He was old
and cruel and had to go.',
was what the eulogy said.
The truth is, he just got too old.
They tell me what I need is hope;
I just don't argue anymore.
I really want to leave.
I thought maybe a new love
might ease the pain, but
then again, I've tried that before.
One of these days, one of these doors
might just open, if the black paint
ever has mercy on my soul.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Painted Doors by Mike Acker )
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