Words, Words
I don’t think I can come up with some, or even enough to express the
Anger
Anguish
Helplessness
That I feel is my life. I am no contender of the poor, or begging for food, or dying of an illness. But perhaps what I feel is worse than them all.
To be lonely is a disease within itself. One by one, they all leave me behind. Like a forgotten toy under the bed, settling in dust, and waiting for a day that will never come. Waiting and hoping for something utterly stupid that I know will never happen. One by one, like plucking petals from a flower. They all fall, or fly away. They either hate me. Or want to get rid of me. Or just don’t want to see me. Or are busy and have better things to do. It doesn’t matter once you’re chewed up and tossed to the side, like a broken toy under the bed, settling in dust. And life just goes on. Like the swinging of a pendulum, or the beating of a torn heart. Some are happy. Some are not. Maybe I’m somewhere in the middle. All I know is that I am all alone. And to hope is to forget that my identity is nothing
But a mask,
A lie.
Like petals being plucked, one by one, from a flower falling to the ground, or flying away. And life goes on. But here I am, like a broken toy under a bed, settling in dust.
Forgotten.
Paying the price for something I didn’t do. But even if they don’t remember, I can’t stop loving or caring about them. And so it goes on, like petals from a flower, being a better place in life. While I lay here, taking it silently. Because I guess it’s okay that you’re happy, but I’m not. But what does it matter? I’m just a toy. A toy. Under a bed, settling in dust. Broken. Chewed up, tossed aside.
Forgotten.