Life Inside the Smoke-Glass Box

I awake
Lying still in murky black
Where am I? 
Who knows? Who cares?
Is that dull thud my own heartbeat?
So slow         Muffled
I reach up to touch the blackness
I reach           Slowly
Pins                And needles
Cold air creeping over my scalp
Slime encasing my tongue
Did I eat something? I cannot remember
Hands come to contact with sticky, cold surface
Right above my head
Lower my hands through the black air
Through murky water
Thick with refuse
Hands touch cold hardness
It is                What I am laying on
Chilling my bones
Not my skin though
Try to shift my legs
Pins              And needles
Are they even attached to me anymore?
Hands crawl to my sides
I touch cold, slimy, sticky, naked chicken skin
Covered in goosebumps
Pins              And needles 
Slowly bring aching arms up, and put those hands on my face 
What is this?
A blindfold?
Oh yes. Distantly I remember now that I put it on myself
Drag the burlap silk over my nose
Not much light comes into my eyes       As I lift heavy lids off of them
Through ringing ears, faint voices
Calling my name? 
I have no idea
Lift up the hands; pale gray tinged with sick green
Press them against the cold, wet, hazy, filmy glass       Way above my head
Pins                And needles
The glass blocking nothingness
The glass trapping nothingness
Voices die in ringing
Breathe in green-tinted smoke
Cover eyes back with that same greasy blindfold
Smoke fills my lungs; my world
Tongue gets slimier 
Ironic, isn't it?
Avoiding misery by being in it?
This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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