How I wish I could see both
Sides of this thought, one prose
And the other for a lonely poet
But they are ends, I know it.

I need materials to build myself up
Creativity is in a slump
The wonder of my body
Is that I hold rungs that are anything but shoddy.

The world opens for me
But my body itself is a shallow sea
If anything, I am a prison
A prison for dead ends.