A man once lived in a head full of spite.
The others silenced him against his plight.
Trapped in his head, he scrawled words in lines.
Not comprehensive to those who did not see,
His scrupulous demeanor of requiescent agony.
Though he fought to break those bonds,
He could not take all that  was gone.
And in pure rage he beat on the cage.
With ****** hands that wrote the page.
Now he sits discouraged and submissive.
Unknowing of the flowing pensive,
of happiness so forbidden to him.
He could not blame others.
After all, the cage was his design.
They only gave him the materials, not his perturbed mind.
Only he is to blame for his inequities.
This silent and sorrowful entity.