Me as a toy:
Go on, pull the voice box.
Silent stickling of tongue,
saliva gushing forth between the gums,
holding force against my lips with sealed plastic.
Speech, unpermitted.
Once, you fostered lovingthinlipped smirks of interest.
Foolhearted eager boy would soon forget it all.
Trapped beyond his consciousness of figures
worthy of praise, of honor.
Oh, the imagination he once had in me.
As a man, if that is what he calls himself,
he succeeds the charms,
porcelain faced doll slinks into the undercurrents
of his mind. Placed in a storage locked by those
only embarrassed enough to hide their passions
of the past. No longer a blatant part of everyday life.
You know what they say: Out of sight, out of mind.
Therefore I am left as the unloved, solitary being,
who silently watches signs for him.
Outgrown. He really has outgrown me.
Newness, fresh polyester and cotton turn grey.
Cleansing is easier said than done.
Wishing to scream past the pinched, pursed lips of
a stubborn figurine, but unfortunately remains
in meditation of the silence.
Oho! Peering glossy eyed into your face with a resurrected shine
holds no key to your interest.
I am placed on the highest shelf, set apart in a lonely
fashion, away from the crowd, the friends, the sense of community.
No more.
There can't be anymore of that now.
I itch for the touch of your fingers to prod my vocal cord.
Heat, warmth of a secure hand, hold me tightly.
Have confidence to make me reply.
I have no new source of energy to help me along,
leading me upon the road of desolation towards self worth.
Batteries out.
Joints stiffin, dust pasted in the skin. Deary look, really.
When you reach for that pull cord, my voice cracks,
dissolving into broken patterns of nostalgic nonsense.
