I am not entirely myself

Each day I wake to face the army of Earth

And their plans to form me into less than my own worth

Even iron weakens when shaped over and over

Novice smiths have me in their untrained hands as they bide by the demands of their masters

Using crude implements to try and form beyond their skill

Fighting the futility of my own malleability

My bonds are broken each and every day

And so,

Synapses are stretched beyond their point break

All in the name of mindless money matters

And maddening those who smoke marijuana
What if the iron fist of Detroit 

Was asked to shake every hand that walked past it

What if the Thinker was forced to answer every mediocre musing

What if the grooves of Disareli Gears were played forwards and backwards 3,000 times a day?
The fingers would fall

The Thinker would stall

And the gears would grind to a halt
So before you form something as you would have it

Ask yourself

What if that were me?