Strings

Like a Brick in my stomach

A leaden weight.

My legs won’t move.

My eyes sluggish over rambling prose,

My fingers reluctant to grasp the pen.

Limp and lipid.

A lack of substance to my words,

A lack of colour in my face,

A lack of life to my colours.

Marionette players flicker on screen,

Unaware that this is merely the ramblings,

Of a deluded mind.

The creations of imagination,

To form a world

Where I am still standing,

My eyes are still seeing,

And you are there for me,

Because I still need you to be.