The Walls of Hell Are Yellow


The walls of hell

Are a disgusting yellow.

The carpet is too.

Why they had that outdated yellow carpet,

I don’t know.

Seven years, it’s all the same.

Snotty yellow.

The doors are locked.

You’re buzzed in the front door,


Nurse opens the second door,

You walk on through,

Door closes.

You don’t go back through that door,

Or the other door,

Until they say so.

Days, they say.

And days turn into weeks,

Weeks feel like months,

Or were they?

I don’t know.

Your first time, you get a tour.

Welcome to our humble abode,

We save lives here.

And you think,

Oh, this won’t be so bad.

In and out, sick and not.

That’s the lie we wanted to believe.

But how do you fix a soul in a few days,



The walls become your friends.

Their corners hug you

In a loveless embrace.

But would they exist without you?

Probably not.

There’s really only a few rooms,

All locked off from the next.

The glass bubble of the nurse’s station,

Always watching. Always waiting.

You spend your day watching the clock;

Meds, bathroom breaks,

Meals, groups,

Bathroom breaks, meds,



You take them, you refuse,

Did you ever have a choice?

Some of them truly love you.

You know which ones when you’re

A frequent flier.

Not the best reputation to have,

But it’s far too common there.

Some of them are there for a paycheck.

Can’t say I blame them.

Insurance pays well.

But most truly care.

And just like those walls,

You pretend it’s enough.

You spend years

In and out. In and out.

But mostly in.

Wondering all the same,

Of all the damn colors,

Why this snotty yellow?

  • August 29th, 2016



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