These Walls

These Walls prose poem

Photo by jamkablam


They’re always closing in.
These walls seem to have
sick minds of their own
as they begin to crush me.

I am one thing here.
I am one person here.
What I want is not most
very important, dear.

But a person has to breathe.
Something I can never find
is the air that would absolve
me of all these faults inside.

I am very small.
Compared to
everything else,
I am nothing but
life’s sick doll.

There is so much
air in the atmosphere,
so why do I find myself
so unable to breathe it?

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Alex Whalen

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I'm just an angst filled teenager who happens to write a little poetry here and there.
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