Boxes
Boxes
I feel trapped within a box
one of my own construction
as I punch and struggle to break free
and once successful am confronted with two more, in its place.
Forced to choose
confined
confused,
afraid
to play these games of introspection
intervention
disconnection,
so instead, I sort my thoughts in nice, neat bins
and corrugated crates,
careful never to color outside the lines,
or paint myself into a corner,
though I’m starting to wonder if I’m meant to be
stuck inside or outside the box,
like some prodigal package lost
on a never-ending assembly line.
Some days, I just want to jump off the grid.
From the day I was born,
I was torn from the womb and tossed into a bubble,
faced with endless rigid boxes -
the dutiful daughter, diligent student,
colleague, commuter, blushing bride, mother
of invention. Sometimes the grid puts me in a messy, mislabeled box I clearly don’t belong in.
I break through the nebulous moonlit sky,
embrace parcels of darkness, wait for the sun,
once I realize life is spent
unwrapping boxes and unpacking stars
into neat, deletable, disposable jars.