16. existential angst 'n shit

other days,

I realize

this mind

is a prison

I will never

escape;

that what world I see

through these bars

is too far away to touch,

that I am scratching tallies into stone,

and that I will never know

why caged birds sing.

This was the products of the most recent bout of melancholy. If I were to sort this poem into a genre, I would sort it into "shitty emo poems." Oh the angst. Anyways, this one probably fall in the ten that are not good. It was fun to write, though.