The System Taught Him Not to Need

The system taught him not to need,
It trimmed the bloom before it spread.
It taught him hunger mustn’t bleed,
And questions must be asked in bed.

It praised the calm, the clipped replies,
A collar white, a downcast gaze.
Cut wings, then pointed at the skies
And called his longing just a phase.

His rage was measured,
then removed.
The joy was filed,
then delayed.
He once believed he could be moved,
They taught him stillness should be stayed.

The forms were signed, the frame was met.
Hands folded right, the voice kept smooth.
He bound the fire with silk and threat,
Then named the wildness simply youth.

They called it growth.
They called it grace.
He mimicked warmth and stitched his tone.
Each time he vanished into place,
They smiled and said, you’re not alone.

He tried to speak, but found no shape,
The words arrived in rows, not flight.
Laughed softly in the tone of safe
And folded mornings into night.

Rules hold. The schedule doesn’t slip.
The meals arrive,
the posture stays.
No tremor rises past the lip,
No fingers trace forbidden ways.

And when they say he’s doing well,
So balanced, calm, and unreleased,
He nods, and rings the daily bell,
Then strokes the cage he built the beast.