Imprisoned

The ticking never seems to slow,
Hands travelling round a million a minute,
A never-ending race
Toward an unmarked finish-line. 

The crevices of my mind are held by
By dull facts and syntax and due dates and 
Full plates and applications and calculations,
All adding onto the mental abrasions.

Attempts to escape are futile because 
You can’t run from yourself.
My limitations are the cell
And I am my own prisoner.

My sentence here is long, that I know, 
But every once in a while I slip away 
Unnoticed, fleeing to the only place I know
They won’t find me.
And when I arrive at that destination,
Free of steel bars and cinderblock, 
I close my eyes and exhale, silently reveling in
My fleeting freedom.
There is no ticking here.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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