Conformed, confined, contained through social pressures of mainstream conformity, 8 year sentence.
A prison of societal norms stripped away my paint stained hands.
My bloody knuckles long since healed over from years on intensive wood sculpture.
Tried to be mainstreamish found myself drowning in a stream of swift current, washed upon the bank.
I see the crossroads criss cross on the crooked highway ahead, back on cantaloupe corner, still not dead.
Who am I now? Still ponder into the great wonder.
self-imposed imprisonment, a life of conformity for appeasement. Not of my own.
Alone in my own personal heaven, and my own self-centered hell.
Knock on wood, wishing upon a star, no compass can guide.
Back on criss crossing crossroads at cantaloupe Corner.