The Toy
The Toy
If I were a toy
Full of stuffing and air
I would wonder why
Why those who used and
abused me could easily disregard me
Hugging one way-tugging another
Until
Until the molded figure becomes
effete
My dark hardened eyes would still be saddened
Corners are so empty and dark
Would I be picked up and be loved once more?
Loved for what I really am!
Or would I be replaced by an innate
object
Reality tells me that I am not a helpless toy
That my heart is not wind-up
That if I’m ripped or torn the cotton
cannot be simply re- tucked
I bleed, my heart aches, and I cry real tears
Though not a toy, I have been toyed with all too often
and tossed into empty corners
Hoping that I’ll someday
Someday be cared about for what is soulfully inside me
To no longer be tremulous of becoming obsolete.
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