a very special toy

another day of actions attempting to drive away the loneliness-- done in vain

my efforts are worthless

looking in the mirror to see what is so wrong with me

that i would be so undesired

so invisible

so lonely

i laid down attempting to sleep away the reoccurring sting i felt,

but the gods whisper

they stroke my hair

and whisper, their breathes grazing my cheeks 

a feeling just the same as a gentle breeze

they tell me that i must be lonely

it is my call

they need to turn away anyone that comes my way

they need me to write a few good lines 

i cannot be content

with contentment comes the death of painted and colorful lines of language

pure art is painful, starved, full of unadulterated emotions 

every time i become comfortable, the gods poke a stick at me

i only speak anything worth saying when tortured

i am the wind up toy of the gods

their very own special toy to play with

its an almost flattering curse

that of all the loose minds in the world, they have chosen me to torture 

a very special toy, indeed

Reviews

[terry smith]

contentment breeds complacency that is true! The best writers were all tortured souls...didn't mean that they couldn't have love...even if it were fleeting.