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’m 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’m only allowed felt tips
and I can’t have scissors
to cut the umbilical cord
keeping me here in reality.
I have an appointment
to go flying with Richard Branson
but they won’t 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.