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Bred into Captivity
by Trisha De GraciaI am nothing but permanent record
file and number
a barcode nulled
with the swipe of a jiffy.
I held my face to the cold, cold floor
and cried through the cracks
in the laminate flooring.
I am the inconsequentiality
represented by flies'
dead bodies all scattered
on sills of the steeple stained glass.
If I survive
then I won't live to feel
as much as this.
If I survive
then I submit
to the nonfeeling doled
by 12+ years of molding.
I'll live my successes through cabinets filled
with paper
manila
and staples.
I am the sacrifice-
child that was me
my genius
has withered and died
and become like a ghost
I've been trying to fill
with water
or sweat.
I choked on the day.
This day
I am harrowed
and empty.
10/19/2004 Author's Note: Pierce of lonliness, pressure to succeed, pushing the blood from my veins. I feel it so literally in my chest, in my heart, in the strict sense of the phrase. Their palpiations scream that something isn't right. In orbit, I am constantly falling to a centre I won't eventually hit.
Posted on 10/20/2004
Copyright © 2024 Trisha De Gracia
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by D. Xavier Bari on 12/31/04 at 07:19 AM Frustration captured in a bottle. The pressure to conform to a "filable" template can be, at times, seemingly insurmountable. All of the broken know how to break (and know it all too well) but few know how to mend. |
| Posted by Angela Stevens on 07/15/11 at 07:42 PM I can hear you rattling the bars of the cage. I often want to break free too. |
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