to be a speciman in a jar
inspected from all angles
not freedom,
no hopeful view
inspected for your shape,
your feelings, your i.q.
to tip and tap scream and
yell for help to free oneself,
to pace cyclically while the beat of
your innerclock ticks your
precious time away.
to watch the watchers,
hear them whispering,
gossiping, laughing,
pointing at you,
curled feotally, as far as
possible from the incessant
view.
to want one thing,
but have another.
to desire,
to emire oneself
in a,
crooked point of
view.
to be confused, restrained
by sundered synapse,
or
fixated on rythmn, numbers,
rhymes in order to get through.
to be black ink stickmen,
in
an ink black room,
with a black dog,
chasing you....
growling out doom.
to be living a hell private
and encompassing while,
working in uniform
oh so neat.
we are one and all,
the specimans,
incomplete.
the glass jar is there,
for
all who stumble in defeat.
....to be a speciman
in a jar
judged for ....
is a living death,
a soundless living hell
a far cry from heaven,
more an automated shell
walking, moving, talking,
exsisting.....
in a jar...
..... on a shelf.
with a big nod to, miss plath
and her bell jar.
but also from personal experience