A Body of Bars; A Cement Head

Crow, 10th- Oakland, CA
The body [my body] isn’t meant to feel trapped. 
And yet
with every passing day
I feel as though my soul is being sucked further and further in
just to take physical form.
My fingertips long for the urge to make
and my lower back itches with anticipation. 
The path following each year seems to dissipate into gravel 
faster than ever before. 
I find myself struggling to judge myself based off of social normalities 
in comparison to my own aspirations. 
Every noise made,
every sweet drop of honey from my tongue 
must come with a sudden bluntness, 
almost as to not upset the bees who created the monstrosity in the first place. 
Forgetfulness is a common scheme in my thoughtfulness
and thoughtfulness is encouraging the disposal of love. 
And although the use of words may impress those 
with a fondness for professionalism,
I feel as though my newfound mannerisms 
are merely a disguise for means of entertainment and praise. 
Thus in conclusion, life feels [is] incomprehensible, 
and although I torture myself with the notion of comfort, 
and a sense of awe, 
there is more reason in flailing around like a fish on land. 
And yet instead, I scribble down lengthy, failing paragraphs
full of similes.