Compliance

If I could set myself up to comply, 

I think I could let go, 

But as not to lie, I'm one to drive against

your flow.

Torrential it comes, potentially taking

form.

Overhead, overcast, and simply overdone,

under-nose, underfoot, with hands

under duress.

Indecisive of their action, in discussions 

of concussions soon to be,

percussions tap-a-tapping

coded rhythms

Only wall-pressed neighbors

could hope to decipher.

Dancing along either way, 

oblivious to the subtext,

conscious of the compulsions,

conscious of the contusions,

conscious of the contemplation,

caught up in the moment,

threaded straight through

sewing mouths right shut.

Yet again, the question is posed,

"what's my line again?" 

unsure of a proper response

"what's my-"

cue cards shuffled through

"that's not-"

voice cleared, posture recomposed

"Reach within,

limitless ceilings

and depths beneath

unrest your tools,

with talents honed,

breathe into creation,

unleash greatness,

Reach outwards."

Refusal of the content. Refusal of the compliant.

Author's Note

I don't claim to be a poet, but throw critiques as you will. To be honest, it's been more of a spur of the moment thing over the past couple of years rather than anything I'd pursue as serious.