I wish I could make a poem out of the sound the door makes when it hits the trim. Every bang, bam and blag.
I hear the sound too often that I can recreate and remaster it in memory; but feelings takeover, throwing my words out the window. If only I can write that poem, then maybe pain won’t echo in my heart this loudly.
But I can’t ever escape the sound no matter how frequent I hear it. I go silent instead. I go blank. I sink deep into a void within my soul. I float there, and stay, and wallow for minutes, if not ages. Because here goes the door again shutting to my face, bang; taking me apart, bam; and enclosing us in, blag!
It goes and goes and goes and I now am numb.
If photographed, you’d find a girl cloaked in normalcy, staring at her computer, tapping on keys in the hope of finding some refuge while zapped and stuck in a room supposedly called home.
Home is a big word, and so is bang. And bam or blag. I guess these words meld well with the poem I dream of writing should I ever get to finding the capacity to write it.
For now, I will photograph the girl and freeze her in time, blurring her eyes, and trapping sound.