Considering my position

Somehow, all this grit makes me breathe out a wall of glass A prison forming, where I've too much to say but am unable to be heard Too tightly encased to generate the power needed to break out Arms trapped by my sides Entombed, visibly, held in a death scream Perhaps I can return my state to that of Snow White Serenely lay in a glass coffin I'll be saved then, in theory But if I'm the problem, then I never want to be let out Maybe there's poison in my throat The thought certainly quiets me down a while I make a good Snow White, she was my go to avatar amongst fairytale princesses Serves me right then, I brought it on myself Do I shout more, not to be heard but to speed up suffocation? Or eke out this air supply. . . . . ... .