This is my longest poem till date,and I admit it's not the most perfect, but I'd rather get it out right now then slave over it forever to achieve perfection and end up never publishing it.
We all live in boxes,
Apartments stacked to the sky,
Each one containing stories,
The secrets of you and I.
And within those walls of home,
More boxes you will find,
For clothes , books, and food
And for magic of every kind.
There’s a box that streams pictures,
And one that does the dishes,
A box connected to the internet,
Fulfills all your dirty wishes.
But to sustain all these luxuries
You’ve got to work damn hard,
In a 6-by-10 white box,
With your name on a card.
And in this little cubicle,
You’re thoughts are boxed in too,
You don’t challenge or question,
You silently just do.
But soon you yearn to escape,
Break free from the seals,
So you rush into your car,
Just a box, with four wheels.
You call up your mates,
Who reside in your phone,
This little box has numbers,
Of everyone you’ve known.
You meet up in a club,
A box tightly packed with friends,
And you capture these moments,
Using a box with a lens.
But these wildly happy pictures,
Are not shown to Mom or Dad,
Because they belong in a box,
Used for comfort and help when sad.
So you make clear compartments,
Of the people who are yours,
You put these people in closets,
And stick labels on their doors.
‘Friend’, ‘acquaintance’, ‘enemy’,
‘The girl that broke your heart’,
‘The nerd’, ‘the jock’, ‘the geek’,
‘That bloody tart’.
You sometimes switch them ‘round,
And that does cause some strife,
Like when you think of Sue,
Is she a girlfriend, or a wife?
Isn’t is very strange then,
That such a precious thing,
Ultimately gets decided,
By a box with a ring?
That you present to her,
While voice-box miserably sings,
And fingers pluck a guitar,
A box with six strings.
So you create a little family,
A box manufactured by you,
Bring to the world little packages,
Endear them to boxes too.
You give them gifts wrapped for Christmas,
So they have boxes of their own,
And tearfully pack them up for college,
When they’re all big and grown.
But in this life of boxes,
You sometimes let yourself wander,
And think of life beyond the confines,
Out there in the great big yonder.
You dream of sweeping skies and rolling seas,
Wide open meadows, and great big trees.
Of vast open landscapes, a wind that caresses,
Flowing locks of hair, wild untamed tresses.
Deserts stretch across the barren forever,
Mountains reach up tall, sprout endless river,
Infinity extends in stars scattered asunder,
And the only limits here are those of your wonder,
But you joltingly realize,
When snapped back to the grind,
That these are just thoughts,
Trapped in the box of your mind.
So you go on changing boxes,
Till you're down to the last one.
Shedding boxes of roles and labels,
You know you’re finally done.
Because waiting long in its vessel,
The soul gradually humbles,
As the aging box of your body,
Eventually starts to crumble.
There are machines by your bed,
Boxes beep and buzz like a hive,
While pills from little boxes,
Try to keep you alive.
But when your beating heart,
Decides finally to surrender,
Guess where they’ll put you?
In a box, six feet under.
So a mighty life is lived,
As an expression of containers,
Brought together by fate,
Could it be any plainer?
And all you’ve got tell yourself,
When you feel life doesn’t rock is:
“Take it easy there kiddo,
‘Cause life is just boxes.”
