The Door Not Opened

A door

A door with chips in the paint,

reminded me much of 2016.

A year full of dread,

for me, that is.

The knob shined as bright as a newborn star,

representing the new year that was yet to come.

New opportunities,

new chances.

I stared longingly at this door

Hoping,

Praying to the skies above,

Please, let this be it.

Breathe in,

breathe out.

Please.

I reached out for the knob, desperately,

fingers shaking much like an earthquake,

palms sweating,

skin burning as hot as the fiery pits of Hell.

I reached out for the knob, desperately,

wanting to get out,

but shouts could be heard from all around me,

begging, demanding for me to stay.

My hand inched closer,

the voices got louder.

I wanted to get out.

I wanted to be free.

Closer and closer,

the voices got.

 

I inched my hand away, as you would do when touching a hot stove,

and I ducked my head.

The room was dark.

The shouting stopped,

leaving me alone,

the darkness engulfing me, welcoming me in its arms,

like a mother embraces her child.

The door knob no longer shined,

and I was forced to watch the door fade away into the intimidating darkness.

 

I'd missed my chance,

my chance to move on,

my chance to live again.

But now, I was stuck.

 

I can still hear the ferocity of those voices.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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