Container of Possibilities

I can't find the doorway out,
I've learned it does no good to cry and shout,
The motion around the room feels rehearsed,
It's when I stop that the pressure occurs,
Perhaps I am like a container of possibilities,
And because this particular element is endless and confusing,
I just can't help expanding, and expanding, and expanding.

Looking around for a special valve,
One that will release,
With little to no residual pockets.

To this day, 
It alludes me.

So I use the old rusty ones,
That just do the trick,
But whose creaks and groans,
And bits of decomposing metal,
Only allow for a less than optimal,
But functional allowance,
Of forgiveness and rest.