Content am I not.
Sluggish, slow thoughts.
Compressed heart, wheezing awake every hour or so.
Burn this through, bring on the ash, smoke it dry and leave it paled.
You shall resent me.
Of that I promise.
You waste your time on this lifeless thing.
Its eyes are sunken, deep in sockets of black.
Fingers frigid and body too cold.
Lungs still weeping, wondering what it is they did wrong.
Functions are slowing, time yet to cease, and mind growing dim.
This light flickers, on it goes, off it stays, for another minute or two.
The phone ringing, becoming second nature to it, as it vibrates continuous.
Words unspoken, many promises broken, and a tear it has yet to shed.
Its mood is an oddity, its face steel and calm.
The ponds surface has made motion, and for a moment, it hoped.
Till the duck flew away, calm ripples in its wake, and it stays silent.
It walks the house at night, hungry at times and sleepy in others.
Still awake it lies, motionless and stark, the bees humming a bit too loud.
They won’t leave it alone, and even the fur beneath its hand is of no soothing affect.
Its mouth stays dry, no water to quench.
Thirsty it wanders; tingled and prickled its skin now feels.
Stagnant thoughts rising, moon now setting;
Still it sleeps not.
Composed and ready, another day to face, mask secure and smile in place.
The staple is rusted, it binds no more, these blank little arts of warped origins and times.
Speakers are watching, wondering as it sits so still, awaiting the next moment.
It’s already passed by.
Another moment, it’s ready and waiting.
Again does it go.
Pictures dismayed, shadows are taunting.
Scold and impair, it has no care.
Stay unnoticed, gray and black leather, hung in shame and despair.
Warm does it feel, cold yet inside, and another day passes, the phone still ringing.
It ignores the objects, it shuts it all out;
No more can it take.
Feelings forgotten, abandon in ruin, ties still tight and unbroken.
Numbers fraught with laughter, jump and jumble into oblivion, till mornings calm air.
Arise it does, sleepy still, to see the gold and black from outside.
Glasses are resting, watching as it writes these words down.

Its father is waiting.

She is still staying.

Disappointment now rising,

For this poem is ending.