Choking on my own stuffing,
I’m trying to fix myself.
Attempting to repair the holes in my chest,
Whilst I’m still sat empty of feeling on someone’s shelf.
A chew toy, a counsellor, a gallery piece.
A vessel, a gift, a waste.
Anything becomes an accessory once time passes,
Anything is part of the piece.
Anything can be a trend,
I need to fix myself,
To start over,
And shove stuffing in further,
But you insist
And step in
The smell of gingerbread,
Gentle promises of safety
And playgroup the next day.
Warm jumpers that breathed,
Woolly hats that tickled skin.
The world being just
Wooden tables with plates of rice and chicken,
In a creamy rich sauce,
With small pieces of ham.
Toys littering the room
As dreams of castles and forests
Learning new words and overusing them.
At the centre of it all,
Characters of all shapes,
He sits on a roof,
A camera in one hand,
A fist full of desperation in another.
He feels let down,
But not quite yet.
He isn’t ready to unleash his power yet…
Not before he can get into the perfect position,
He faces the skyscrapers,
He observes the calm,
The calm that contrasted his internal anger.
His anger being an extricating pain
That he certainly had to share with
Who had created this itching level
He watched the cars below,
And looks at the…
Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger from Pexels