Boxed in.

You will end up in a box if you are lucky to afford it

A wooden one that’ll be buried beneath.

We spend a lot of our life stressing about building or buying our own boxes

A concrete one that won’t break. It’ll be ours to keep.

We create paper boxes and judge others by it

Throw away the paper airplanes and show me your CV.

We hold boxes in our pockets forcing moments onto it

Just for everyone else to see.

We trap ‘important people’ into boxes and believe they’re gods to worship

They’re called celebrities.

We paint pictures of our loved ones and are infuriated when they don’t live up to it

We blame them for not being a masterpiece.

We drool over provocative women insisting they’re our toys to play with

Then shame them if they don’t want to play with me.

We sit and stare at a box watching children get blown up

It’s on TV so it’s not a reality.

We choose pictures and videos to curate an online profile

Never fully satisfied cos it’s never fully me.

Perhaps memories, people and places aren’t meant to be kept in boxes

Maybe we’re meant to be set free