I'm inside a box,
bound with twine.
It helps neither to pray
nor to whine.
My captors torment me
with tasks so mundane,
I can't think in color
or play in the rain.
Creativity is frowned on,
punished sometimes.
and it's even a struggle
to come up with this rhyme.
I beg for release
though I doubt it will come.
So my only solace
comes from my mind,
where I dream of white beaches
and a place to hide,
from the every day stress
that is this grind.
copyright 2007 - TLP
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1 comment:
Very nice! When do I get to read ALL the poetry? Take care!
Jim
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