One of many;
The combat version of John Doe.
A lack of a soul trapped
In a plastic body
You'd think I'd be immortal;
Such is not the case.
You'd think I'd be immortal,
But cracks and snaps adorn this shell;
This shell without a soul.
No brain (supposedly)
No body, no mind
However, would you be so kind
As to entertain me for a moment –
One moment out of your war-free lives;
One minute away from your peace;
One second from your track homes and fireplaces and families
To listen to the woes of a plastic toy.
But although I am but a fabrication
Of an engineer's and a marketer's collaboration,
I am still a warning and representation
Of all that's hell outside the world in which you reside
My arm falls off as combat continues,
My joints are broken and I wonder if it's because
Of the war, or
Maybe they were badly-constructed before.
Either way, I'm broken—
Outside and in.
Never thought that something with no soul could have it
Ripped out of him.
Time drearily goes on and
I seem to be getting highly
But that makes sense;
No need to explain,
For if I were a real soldier,
I wouldn't be fond of plastic me, either.
But that's the game they play,
The toymaker and his elves.
They play and play until they
Can play no more.
I hear that the Toymaker out There
But this makes sense:
I don't like it when my toymaker
Manipulates me as many times as possible, either.
Particularly not when I'm falling apart.
We are all falling apart.
Plastic or not, we are still Joe.
Joe, with the breakable joints.
Joe, with the lifelike hair.
Joe, who's a soulless shell
And an unheard prayer.
Eyes that can't be moved
And head that cannot care
For the fear of the pain
That should damage but the body—
The soul that's not there.
For we are all wounded,
Despite which Toymaker we've got.
No comfort is comfort enough
Thank you for your audience;
Now go on with your lives.
29 October 2007