My cell.

My mental holding cell.

I could say a lot about myself,

But it wouldn't be true.

None of it would be true.

What I would say would be just what my body wants me to say.

Not what I would say.

I am just a slave.

A slave to you,

To him,

To her,

To everyone.

To the masses that speak about freedom but want to take over the government.

To the people who preach charity but own private jets.

To the groups that want to save the world but plant a few tree’s to fix it.

I have never spoken my mind much but a few times.

I am trapped.

I am trapped on the inside.

My brain, the greatest cell that can hold me.

I am a million suns exploding at the same time.

I am the color wheel squared.

I am the symphonies and orchestras that make peace seem peaceful.

I am a nuclear bomb with a silencer on it.

I wish to be free.

If only they could see what I can see.

It is better to die sometimes other than to keep it all in,

But that is how I was raised.

To be “quiet”, “respectful”, “appropriate”.

But they don’t see what I see.

They don’t see that the world isn’t quiet or respectful or appropriate.

And then what do they say?

Well maybe you could change that world;

Teach it to be more quiet or respectful or appropriate.

But how could I do that when I am jammed up inside my head?

My body is not my own.

It is a machine that follows the world’s rules.

It walks through the halls with a smiling face while I’m crying on the inside.

It is the thing that Is slowly killing me.

Myself.

If only I could just be myself, I might not be dieing on the inside.

But that is not the world they see.

It is the world we live in.

And I am still dead.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

You are right. I like the direct and honest tone of the poetry.
"They don’t see that the world isn’t quiet or respectful or appropriate."
Sometime obeying the rules become a prison. Thank you for sharing the excellent poetry.
Coyote