Years And Years Of Order

years and years of order,
a century of
system, what have all these made out of me?

have i become a piece of law?
solid stone?
a bar of gold?
a thread of silence?

have i become so less of myself?
that seed growing and suppressed
inside a plastic pot?

where are my tendrils? oh, they have all been pruned
and i look so prim and proper
like a manicured lawn,

i have always loved the sun and
all my leaves wish for
its rays, and i have always adored the moon
and all my flowers
exuded the fragrance for the night

but look at me
inside the box of civilization
the walls of propriety
the house of morality

look at me? i am whorled
i am misshapen
i am bleeding and i am dying
to be whole again

to be free, i am evaporating
into a madness that all my senses are craving

a night nude, a day glimmering
a ball of fist,
a stab of stares

a burst of a gun beside my butt
a scream for love

look at me, do i look so ruined?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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