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10-4.
//-start of poem-\\
Numbers are swirling in my brain.
Phrases no longer form.
Numbness has started causing pain.
I’m feeling quite forlorn.
“Give me the eighty and the eight!”
So was my last refrain.
They look at me; they hesitate.
They think I’ve gone insane.
“His medicine is in the car.”
“He missed a dose; he’s late.”
So since my sounds seem from afar
They simply medicate.
The baby’s sounds don’t form a phrase.
They think he is a star.
His sounds are just a jumbled haze.
Yet still amazed they are.
And then my sounds will jumble out
And leave them in a daze.
“Give him more drugs!” they scream and shout.
“It’s just another phase.”
I try to form a phrase once more:
“A sixty six about!”
Numbers replaced some words “B-4”
The right ones could come out.
So next they make me go inside
And then they lock the door.
“We wish you would stay here and hide!”
“We’ll keep the key,” they swore.
I wish I had no health insurance.
So “mental health?”: “Denied!”
Or that I had not had a trance.
Instead that I had died.
Now that I’m locked inside my room
I hear them sing and dance.
I need to learn to talk real soon.
I need to take a chance.
I try to crash right out of there
Just like a burst cocoon.
When I succeed they get a scare
And stop their mocking tune!
“Just ‘eighty six’ this nastiness!”
They don’t reply nor dare!
“Just say ‘ten-four’ or you’ll be next!”
“We understand, we swear!”
From that time forth I was the boss.
It’s just a game I guess.
I speak in code and look real cross
And live in happiness.
\\-end of poem-//
by > Roamoff
composed Mar 2006.
submitted 01 Apr 2006.
Copyright © Mar 2006 by Roamoff.
10-4.
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I really like this poem's carry-forward rhyming. See if you can spot it.
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