The watchers

Adam Branch

Faces keep changing away
as I stay trapped in this room,
my tomb all day. Scared of the
glass screens muffling my hollow screams.
Is anything as it seems? No longer
so easily pleased. My arm hides
any signs of insanity. Small teeth
clutching at anything as tears leave
My wide eyes and fall to the floor.
Drops for every heartbreak when I
saw their faces in tune to my favourite
song. And I went along. Fighting to send
My bitter notes before theirs.
A way to feel accomplished,
like I’m good at anything
as I lie here, near malnourished,
Not even half ashamed.
More pity for my fucked-up brain.

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