I keep a pretence, well-maintained by fools.
I'm put in place by those who know me not.
Shoved in a box, and moved about by strings,
Contained within a tiny world of kings.
I'm orchestrated by a melody
That's filled with rhythm, strict and quite a bore.
A place for freedom's solace there is not,
Just flasks of tears that strictness deft has brought.
An inch of space I have no room to fit
Into the limits of my prison cell.
Filled up with fibres of my saddened soul,
Which float about torn up from feeble dole.
Routines of pointless tasks and aimless sneers,
I beg you, hear my cries and see my tears.
Seemingly a commentary on desperate isolation, it was actually an English assignment on Their Eyes Were Watching God. We were supposed to write about Janie's frustration with Jody, but I broadened the topic to an overall depiction of frustration.
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