Am I in utero,
    Or is this purgatory?

Should I be comforted
by this sense of complacency,
reverberating through the sea
where my cortex leisurely floats?
   Or should I be worried?
That I am becoming contented,
that this is dangerous to my existence
and the wholeness of my soul?
                                                                        For I am a wild animal...
Aren’t I?
Sure, my teeth resemble no fang,
my nails have not torn lately torn into flesh,
But I need to drink in air that’s fresh,
I need to move,
I need to see,
I long to run,
I long for freedom, yes,
I must be free.
                                                                           For I am a wild animal.

I hear the words in the primal cry of my mind internal,
And I know,
The truth lies in the latter.

I am suspended in an idle purgatory of my own making
I have tricked myself into a false sense of contentment
Comfort is my only organic enemy.
I must move,
I must see,
I must run,
I must have freedom,
I must be free.

I have been a netted fish,
a caged wolf,
a bear with foot in iron trap.

                                                                                    I am a wild animal;

I will kick and bite and claw,
I will fight relentless until
                                                                                            I am free.