My soul is a slave imprisoned by my skin,
My spirit is strong, yet constrained by sameness’s sinister grin,
My thoughts are those of a skeptic, knowing wind will one day break the mast,
My eyes are those of an artist, seeing splendor and making it last,
My words are those of a poet, letting elegance cast,
My hands are the lowest branches on tree, reaching for the brightest light,
My feet are gentle and soundless, like those of a centenarian tortoise,
My back has wings, though they know not of flight.

My poem is the sea, when it lets its beings ascend,
My poem is a hurricane, at its end,
My poem is what happens when the world ends for all,
My poem is, after the fall.

I am a novel; no one shall ever dare read,
I am a piece of artwork, you have to step away to see,
I am the golden fish in the school of white ones,
I am me, someone with individuality.
You are the cage of conformity I am bound to and I am the rebellion that is beginning.