inches away from your face

Standing and stopping,
stooping and retching,
the sickness that pales,
the frown of confusion.
Where did it start?

belief:
in the financial scramble and scrabble
in keeping up with the rabble,
in bondage with blinders,
the ever-omniscient-with-hindsight-ers.

in having to soak in the sweat of air-conditioned offices,
of stuffing our faces with well-toned sauces,
of being denied the waterfalls and mosses
that grow in a land that's wet with regret.

we fit so neatly into a jigsaw puzzle
early childhood till midnight and december,
I can't breathe for all my persistence.
Demonic for a day is all I ask.

Why do i have to be trapped in society,
instead of wrapped in human company,
rapt in songs of synchrony
instead of sapped in my sofa, typing at white keys?

there is always a story at the tip of my tongue,
but my feet just don't know it's time to run.