loney
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I sit on a windowsill, cup in hand.
The cup is attached to a four hundred mile-long string
that if its path was traced would lead to your hands,
In a way we’ve all become dull
Our mundane lives make sure we’re all the same
I’m still not full
From the daily lull
Of our differences being our shames
Waking up every morning to the same tune
Thinking about leaving this place from morn till noon
Stumbling out of bed thinking of who to impress
Dad who knows me so well
Who tucks me in tight with allhis might
Who is a big soft teddy bear filled with love
Who is always stressed about tis and that
Who doesn't play games or do fun activities any more
