Oh lord, if you would only hear
though I joke about being a good one,
this still remains a subset of a process
that I do not attend, my Sundays
are my own no matter the songs
my nan would display,
this patchy carpet my safe zone
and it ran for twelve seasons,
my time apart as best as I can recall.

That fence, a net by any other name,
links and metal pattern an illusion
around this diamond,
and with just the right hit I can be
found outside, I am part of the lost
but perhaps on these outskirts
you can hear my concerns,
no I do not expect a response,
but I believe you acknowledge it,
and in my own way,
my own little hope,
that change is upon my corner
awaiting my grasp.