Poetry / Bruises on the Wrists of the Mind

Something is not quite right
A startled bird would turn and take flight
But there’s nowhere for me to fly.

I struggle to comprehend
What I cannot mend
And why, if I could,
I’m somehow held back
By a chain that once hung slack.

These shackles raise my hackles
And I’d growl if I knew how.
They leave bruises on the wrists of my mind
And my arms are sore from straining.

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