Ever feel like you’re being watched? Not in a creepy way, but as if someone or some people make their assumptions about you based on observation; faulty observations. It’s like – hence the title of this post – not making use of an interrogation room for its intended purpose. Instead of being questioned, the overseers utilize the room for a psych evaluation. But what you see isn’t necessarily what you get.
Even though I profess to hate poetry (*gasp* – I’m an English major, this simply shouldn’t be!), I like to dabble in attempting to write my own. Some of these lines ran through my head while I was sitting in a church service, and this is what I came up with…so here’s “Interrogate.”
They are on the outside looking in
Whisper an array of words and theories
Which could not be more wrong again.
This time I stand silent and patient
No longer do I strike the glass
Window in the room of my interrogation.
She haunts me, my own reflection
Along with your cold stares from
Within, as I try to deflect them
With less success than in the past.
Your judgment consumes the questions
You never thought to ask.
The weight on my shoulders bears
The world and every soundless sleep.
A single light bulb, a lonely chair,
Tempers flare and tensions rise.
They attribute my condition to
Another insomniatic night.
The bulb flickers, another day passed
I rise, eager to leave this room as
Each time seems longer than last.
He knows my name well, the warden
Who holds me here; my name has been
Etched on the wall of my cell.
With immediacy I transition from ice to fire
You don’t see, you don’t understand
When you need only inquire.
Hot and cold, but perfectly sane
You tell me I’m harder to predict
Than a runaway train.
With tact you observe but fail to see
The answers lie beyond your window,
They have always lived with me.
A fact that has not occurred to any of
My observers, for no questions are asked
Inside my interrogation room.