with resounding bitterness,
I proclaim, stuck in this meddling prison,
I see mournfully
glass box lines
shaved sparks lying on the inside
at times I pause and
submit, because
what else is there to do?
in this glass box whimsical thing

two emotions vying at my psyche
wrong words pouring out
of the fountainhead that has
replaced my own head
fingers pointed to where I should go
roads pointing over the tired, tried and true
gravel sticking to my feet
pain shooting up where it isn't supposed to be