The Plaything No Longer Wants To Play
Left out in the cold, hung out to dry,
easily outgrown, forgotten delicae,
abandoned, glossed over, a coveter of dust,
the corneas of my apertures, covered in rust.
Feeling out of touch with my former self,
dormant for decades on a rickety shelf,
hidden away beneath debris,
in a place most eyes never glance at to see.
Cynical thoughts brood within,
each move leaves splinters, piercing my skin,
heavy heart like a barbell - eyes, as ebony as ash
beaten bloody, by emotional whiplash.
My seams are torn,
and when you pull my string,
I quiver and crack instead of sing,
I feel forgotten, as I wrinkle and decay,
each crease, mapping out every lost day.
I watch on, as a hunk-of junk -
through thick gunk and debris,
burying the person I'll never be,
I've kneeled and faded, I've lost my song -
brushed right off - and the world moves on.