Every breath I take is a labour of love,
for this body, I must sustain.
It seems happy, in this world.
But as for me, 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 it will 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 all the eulogy said.
They tell me what I need is hope;
I just don't argue anymore.
I really want to go.
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.
Mike Acker's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Painted Doors by Mike Acker )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe
Did you read them?
- Rhythm's Of Propensity, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- PREDATORS 10 WORDS, Beryl Dov
- The two laughs of a toddler, Kaki Venugopala Rao
- *IX*- To Love, Leslie Guylee Cron
- Making A Nation, Tony Adah
- Two Moons, Akhtar Jawad
- If James T. Kirk wrote a poem, Gouda Moon
- Who wants that Catch-22?, Mark Heathcote
- yup, Mandolyn ...
- Jessica, Prophmatt . . .