Inside a normal closet,
What do you expect to find?
Clothes, coats, shoes;
An ugly, forgotten shirt?
Mine isn't like that at all.
My closet keeps me prisoner,
Doors squeezed tightly shut,
I fumble through the darkness,
Calling and calling.
My closet keeps me bound,
Suffocating under layers of cloth,
I writhe in the darkness,
Calling and calling.
My closet keeps me silent,
Screaming though I'm mute,
I weep with my darkness,
Softly, calling and calling.
Hello, is there anyone listening?
Am I making any sound at all?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem