This is a poem for the inner trying to get out
For yearnings and desperation
Surrounded by cardboard furniture we sit
             With silence
                 And serious expressions
                             Business-like.

Perhaps I will set down a lyric after lyric
About the clicking pen
Scribbling over paper
About due process
Convention
Eyes avoiding eyes
The building of a wall.
Our windows all have shutters now
We begin to close them

A whispered
Bridge the gap
Is stifled
Pushed away
Drowned
In proper formality
Small talk barely satisfies.

Suits,
Mr Smith,
Suits.
Let us be quirky
Oh fellow human clone of mine!

Let us dance!