Untitled #3

I looked up to him in my seat – a monoblock

As he relates my transformation, in a tone almost stone

In stoicism, from submission to a possession of voice

Of authority; wherein a voice could’ve sufficed

I had leapt over a border and left myself beyond

When in a form of a prose, I wrote

A set of instructions to forgetting

Akin to commands of boxing memories

And wrapping them with packaging tape

In countless rounds

I have written that remark in cursive

Tattooed in a box labeled nostalgia

A compliment - granted by a man

I looked up to like a god

But in the view of twilight, I am masked

With shame

For I have lost that voice at the touch

Of a diploma on my hand, replaced

By a docile “yes sir, yes ma’am”

On a usual office set up

How the real halts the dreams of innocence

Not by the looming rejections or failures

Or by the gift of disillusionment

But by the natural instinct to survive

Before to live

I am now writing a set of instructions

To the generations yet to come

On how to live by emptying out the box

Wrapped with packaging tape

In countless rounds

But between paper works and paying

Bills I couldn’t find the time

Nor the voice that in my sleep has once

Possessed me alive