I won’t say it’s a choking sensation,
more a laborious suffocation.
There’s still hope that life will let me go one
way or another, either to be free
to write and run my life as I please, or
make it clear that I’ll be attached to this
line for all time, cramped and caged in like a
creative canine, which I hate. Enough
of this “run until the rope gets taut” stuff.
It isn’t living, or forgiving, and
my neck is chafing from all the straining.
Of course, if my dreams were caged, I’d still be
complaining; the same for if I were set
free: I doubt I could be in charge of me.

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