Sometimes these bones of mine
want to dance on their own,
free of the weight of the brain
and all the stress it likes to bring. 
Mr. Bones, I say, you must wait your turn. 
Soon enough I’ll be fairly nailed to the earth. 
Mr. Bones is not pleased. You’ll pay,
he says. Now I can barely move
without the pain hammering me.

Note: 

This poem has poetic if not neuro logic.
It wrote itself somnambulistically.