The Prison Of One's Self

I've lived again,
please, don't  be angry.

My body feels caged, I'm
just barely able to breath.
I can't expand
and so, in return, each
breath is a red brush stroke,
dryly whisking a short road on
the walls.

My hand holds a souvenir, I
don't know what it is, so I can't
explain it.

All I know is that I've lived
and the only one angry is
me.