Tied To a Chair For An Indeterminate Time

Staying in this seat is the torture of time spinning down: Psychological nail-biting. Curbing a driving impulse to jump up on my seat and yell Just anything at all as loud as my lungs will let me. This tiny fellow in my head drums incessant fingers On my eyes’ insides - my scalp skin shrieks under my hair. If I did jump up and shout do you suppose the fingers would stop? I resolutely tie my hands to this chair - my chair With mental-tenacity ropes and knots that burn the flesh of my wrists. My itching need for motion, to remove my self from this pain-aware sharpness Drains my attention and swallows up my last wisp of strength Will I be ready when the time for moving comes? Or will that man with the drumming fingers have pulled The ropes so tight that I can never move again?