I feel caged.
Like a vulgar mess of skin and bones.
Wrapped like a beast in a pretty golden cage.
They stare at me.
I see them.
Eyeing me. Judging me.
Waiting for the second I take the wrong step towards the uncommon, the frowned upon.
That’s their job after all.
They like to be the audience.
They like to whisper behind locked doors,
What they either can’t or won’t dare say for all to hear.
They like to rate your actions.
But I am my own person.
None of them,
No matter how hard they may try,
No matter the hand one of them occasionally lends me,
Will ever really understand me like only I can.
My cage, though it may occasionally be filled with love, happiness, pain, suffering, or any of the things that shall please the audience,
Will always remain my secret.
I’ll always be the one looking from the inside.
And I’ll remain trapped until time has had enough of my unoriginal self,
And ends my odd existence.
With or without the approval of the audience.
But aren’t we all?