Semblance Self (Line Driver)

All the lilting clouds are lined with white iron bars,
as if the sky is meant to cage me, oh let it contain me.
For if I my hand may breach the stratosphere,
and return without a handful of heaven or the stars,
I can only blame myself, my reach, my lacking.

My primordial bonds, my genetic smear;
they've granted me nothing but faulted wires, sanguine shines,
loose and ill-fitting manners, fantasies:
all of which is me, oh let them define me.
Let them have their way with me, place static between my ears,
and bathe my brain in television snow.

I've given up hope of truth and the meant-to-be.
My blood means little, the juice one may squeeze
from my skin's every inch until I'm cracked, dry,
wheezing and left to return to the dirt.
But because of the love from those that have born me,
and because of the love from those that have found me,
I'm forced to remain, forced to retain, forced to tolerate.

Secular entities such as I, among the brush and mire,
without a gloved hand to drown, or to save,
haven't a clue where to be or where to retreat to.
I'm convinced of the watchers, so let them observe me,
and know that I am nothing, nothing more than what I am,
what I always was, have been, and I refuse to change
in order to call to another, despite all of my pain;
despite how desperate I am to be wanted.

I'll seek my respite, despite all the folly
and the showers of shit that bury me beneath.
I'll find some semblance of power and place,
of stature and suited arrogance;
I'll find some semblance of self to project,
to reflect toward another's gaze, to protect,
and to hide my entirety until they want me for me.
I'll be lucid and transpired through the ages,
never sure, never wavering... Never truly there.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Thinking about taking my poetry elsewhere.

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