Indecision

People ask, where do I wanna be

What do I wanna do

Where do I wanna end up

And I don’t fucking know

I feel like a Toy Story toy, I’m nothing without someone else playing with me, putting me in construed situations, pulling my strings, I’m happiest and most myself when I can go limp and silent in their hands and at the end of the day be put back in my place

My selfhood and my drive, my determination and my will, my so-called creativity, all are brief battles

Tumultuous unguided and unpredictable bursts that only exhaust me and leave me more confused.

A toy that thinks it should get its own apartment or that it can do a job or finally start brushing its teeth every night

But now I’m in the middle of the street, dodging cars

I am so small and slow, and they are so big and fast

Who the hell let me get off my shelf

Me? No, it can’t be

Lowing, I am brought low,

I’m a domesticated animal

I’m a stalemate, I’m in a trench, never lifting my head over the top, smokeless pipes so the shells don’t find me

I am pyrrhic, internecine

A house that cannot stand

No one lives here

Abandon all hope, ye who enter

All for the worse, ye who leave

There is no feeling, no form, No promise I can keep

Except for that final one that comes for us all

And I run from it and to it like a panicking lamb

This is my keeper to whom I belong

Did you not raise me that I may not run from the knife

But I am too simple to not fear my purpose, and too servile to not know I make good meat

My blood is not protection for an apostolic door to an empty and broken house

So, as always, I meet death and life, Love and hate, in the middle,

Wanting two things, and having none

But the final solace and torture of my self on my shelf