Box of Perfection

I lived housed in my box

of perfection,

seeking only glimpses

out the window

when ready for air.

It's crumpled now,

worn away cardboard,

soaked with rain and sun,

dappled with my sweat

and swaying with the weight

of my burdens,

Then this happens, the thing

I've worked so hard for,

toiled with my own

two hands when toiling

has never been part

of my vocabulary.

I reassess who am I now,

where am I going,

what does this mean,

and why have I lived

for so long inside

something less

than suitable to shield

the rain, the sun.