The itch comes upon me frequently.
With great urgency my pulse beats a steady tattoo.
I sit still - 
or try to - 
but nothing really works.

I move here and there
within the space I'm meant to
but nothing really matters.
I know I have responsibilities
but they were not mine to choose.
Each moment ticks by
and with it I lie - 
it doesn't really matter.

But can I, 
put my feet outside
step out to an other side
that will fit my outsized frame?

Yet now,
behind these bars I look
and try to lift these weary feet.

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