I need structure;
I crave comfort,
so I tear up the grass
and stomp the ground flat.

I want fortification;
I'm addicted to geometric shapes.
Put me in a box,
I roar, as I charge at trees,
bowling them over
and stripping the bark with my fingers.

I am little bothered by the angry chittering of squirrels,
the ugly caws of birds, or the splinters under my nails.
I can deal with my wounds when construction is finished;
for now I gather clay and mud.
I will build the first building, and maybe then
my compulsions will be quelled.