The Pen and The Wind

The writings and musings of a windswept soul.
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I’m an inmate,
Of location and mind,
I can’t escape,
Can’t break out of either,
I’m a prisoner of myself.

And though I despise my cell and keeper,
I fear running from them, 
I’m an institutionalized man now,
All I know is my prison routine,
The rusted and invisible chains chafe,
But are familiar,
Who’d care to even pick the locks?

Actually, I’m not even a prisoner, 
Prisioners socialize with their own,
And send post to their friends and admirers on the outside,
They have regular socialization,
Regular correspondence,
Could I even compare to that?
I’m more an animal in a self made zoo,
Strutting about in a manner,
That gives amusement for a while,
A cheap laptop is that thick glass wall that lets them see me,
Lets them watch a while,
But then get bored and move on,
I’m a spectacle to grow bored of,
I’m no better than Koko,
And if I’m that damned gorilla,
These scribblings of mine are just feces smeared on that glass wall,
In a pretty pattern.

Inmate or gorilla,
It doesn’t matter at all,
I spend my days pining for my freedom,
Knowing damn well I’d never let myself leave.  

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