Something small sits on my desk
It has little meaning to me.
The small object sits, unmoving.
It has scratched green paint, and a deformed head,
slightly tilted in one direction.
What was it questioning?
Am I not good enough?
Am I supposed to do something?
A shaking shudder, utter disbelief.
I refuse to be nothing.
I am life, I am silence.
I bring music to the world of depression,
Life to that of death.
How could such a toy determine my life?
But I can.