Strawberry Fields

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Printed poster.

 

I am tired of living in the house of trampled emotions; of jumping from one room to the next trying to find solace in a bunch of unstable colors. My knees have become weary and my hands rigger from crawling across the floor as the Beatles speak of Strawberry Fields in one room and Elliot Smith speaks of Mrs. Misery in the other. I do not have enough time to dance to Mcartney's chorus before Smith pulls me back to the ground. The doors open and close, ambivalence seeps through the crevices. Its is cold, and dark at times. I caress my own shadow in the wearisome hours of night as thunder bolts strike lightning inside my window. My happiness dangles from a thin chord of string. I am as empty as the wallet that I carry. People come and go. We drink to the brink of dawn and sleep until the sun sets. Even then, I hear nothing beyond the voice. 

Poem by Dany Ayash

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