Tranquillized

My clothes are buttoned wrong.

They say I do it myself

in a fugue state,

but this is no toccata

and I am no Vanessa Mae.

They lie.

I see them when I am asleep

pulling at my clothes

while I hover by the ceiling.

I have yet to master the art

of swimming through concrete,

so am just as trapped

out of my body

as when I am in my head.

The straps that bind me

snatch at my soul

staple it to the sheets

Sellotape it to my medication.

I am thinking of writing

to the Queen

to ask the one with curly hair

to intervene on my behalf

and maybe play Let Me Out

to free me from this room.

The ceiling needs painting

but I am only allowed felt tips

and I cannot have scissors

to cut the umbilical cord

keeping me here in reality.

I have an appointment

to go flying with Richard Branson

but they will not let me leave

or die

and there are people here

who scream and fight

but I just float, hoping that

they will leave a window open.