His typing machine 

Makes a satisfying sound,

He tries to revisit something 

That was lost and never found,

The things that likely cage 

Are freed on the page,

Constructed and textured. 

 

He has mastered the act

Of ignoring the disturbances,

Any kind of noise, vocals, yelp,

Or an immediate ask for help

Goes into the abyss of ignorance.

 

Bringing out his harsh past 

Is his only preliminary 

And predominant goal,

He tries to feed art 

To the melancholic hole.

 

It'd perhaps bring him glory,

A fictional closure 

To an incomplete reality,

But his screeching, caged-bird

Has a different story to tell,

A torment that wouldn't easily sell;

 

Years long ask for freedom 

That goes ignored every time,

He ain't all expression-less,

He alarms that he isn't fine.

 

His tweets aren't fully absurd,

All he wants is to be a bird.