Restricted.

grapples on the window
lead far from reality
tufts of hair posted on each pane
to drown out the screaming
in my head,
it remains.

broken.

toppled under by storm,
it creates me, overwhelms
with quiet worlds and seamless thoughts.

how under-qualified life seems to grow....
such tender minds become alone,
filled with petty headaches and binds
with the lasting divinity of pawns.

but how should it be measured?
in trimesters or lifelines and rails,
it never can tell
ones fate