Restless Boy to Society

I used to write verses on my palms, 

And draw back my fists without wondering why my fingers resembled coffin nails,

Or why the back of my hand looked like the lid of a mason jar,

Left to perch on the edge of an empty bookcase, 

Its owner secretly wishing it would fall and scatter its pieces into the shag carpet,

Secretly waiting for that broken glass to be melted to make a bottle,

And for some brave soul to sacrifice his pride and build a ship in it,

One with sails that manage to move even without the wind behind them;

With cannons that could blast a hole in that sickeningly blue sky,

And fly through it if it couldn't make its way to the ocean, 

And who cares if it can't,

Because those waves reach higher than they should be allowed,

And the water is over-saturated with salt,

Washed from the skin of men who used it to scrub sonnets from their palms;

From the skin of men who've never wondered why their fingers resemble coffin nails.  

I wish they'd pull the plugs out of their ears long enough for me to explain;

For me to tell them it's because you'll take the time to inform me "real boys" don't write poetry,

But never to take your jar down from that goddamn shelf.