Is there room for me

My fettered consciousness
suffers from acute economic starvation.
My life is positioned
under The Thumb,
with guided breaths
and guided steps;
sloshed through
the trough of life
and ushered into place.
The stagnant air
serves as a constant reminder
of the low ceiling
that is my zenith.
Aspirations dashed
as gravity massages the acrid taste
of reality down my throat.
Defined lines and
"divine" placement
express the unnatural order of things.
Everyone knows whats good for me
just as long as I remember my place.