Insane

This next piece is one of my favorite poems that I've ever written. I hope you enjoy as well.

Searching. . .Scratching. . .Clawing. . .
trying to find a way out.
She's trapped.
The harder she scratches the more her fingers bleed. . .The louder she yells the more inflamed her lungs become. . .No one hears. . .No one ever hears her desperate shout.
People have heard about her and they ask where is she I would like to help. . .but her location isn't even mapped.
She sits in a white room for day to day slowly, but surely losing her mind.
They torture her, but not in the way you may think. . .the room, it has windows. . .they put them there purposely. . .she watches. . .she watches other people live their own lives.
Never. . .never once has she encountered human contact of any kind.
They watch her. . .they won't let her. . .she's kept in the dark about everything. . .all she's ever known was hardship and strife.
No mirrors. . .mirrors weren't allowed. . .they say mirrors were just a reflection on the wall.
This intrigues her, she knows not what a reflection is nor a mirror. . .she knew not what she was looking for.
Pacing back and forth up and down the room to past the time, but when this was no longer possible because of the blisters on her feet. . .she dropped to her bony feeble knees to crawl. . .