I find myself bound,
Not by a jacket of canvas,
Nor by lock and key,
But by an assertion of vocal force,
A societal mandate of rules,
An invisible straitjacket of murky glass,
Weightless yet overbearing,
This garment bares a droll image,
The image of a good little citizen,
Projected upon my form without consent,
An alleged single form of living,
A sycophantic idealisation of conformity,
Enforced with strange looks and cupped hands,
Supposedly the only right way,
My elbows swell and circulation ceases,
Thrash as I do,
Trying in angst to be myself,
Itching and struggling,
We all wear this hellish restraint,
In this asylum of a sick world,
So tell me in truth,
Do you too rebel against yours?