The Box

I am bound to act on rules which limit my actions but do not limit my thoughts and opinions.

These rules are constructed to form a perfect little shield, a perfect little lie around what is in actuality a real person, a personality which is not made to fit into a box.

Sometimes the thing that is me has to be squeezed into a box, packaged and ready for consumption like the orange in the juice carton.

By no means is forcing a square peg into a round hole painless.

The odd bits and ends have to be snipped off or tucked in to fit.

Against my wishes, through personality modification (aka life and its antagonists), parts of me are shaved off to satisfy the people who think they know better.

I am sick of the box.

I am tired of being less that what I want to be.

I want to break loose and be the ugly, imperfect person that I am.

The Id needs to have a say.

I want to have a say in what kind of monster I become.

Everyone has a box they have to deal with. I'm getting the scissors.



A Perfect little wish that won't come true any time soon.