Gone With the Wind

He sulks back into his house,
Puts his back pack on the ground,
Sits down on his couch,
Grabs a remote and isolates
Himself from the rest of the world
For awhile, because of the discomfort
It causes.
Everyday he looks at himself in the
Mirror, dissatisfied,
More and more each new day,
He is under society's spell of
Being the perfect human,
But he doesn't understand,
That perfection isn't a reality,
Just a goal.
Seems as though it's too late now,
He has already located himself
On a roof, the wind soaking his hair
In its tenderness, grabbing, whispering,
Begging for him to let it take the struggles
Away.
And away they went,
As gravity increased his attraction
To the Earth, it seemed like a nice place.
Arms crossed, as if in anger,
Because now all he is allowed to see
Is the inside of his new room,
For the rest of eternity.