We can be as sick as clocks some days, Our arms and legs ticking, and our frames sweating to break the fever down into something better understandable, Each eye drifting back and forth, Our mouths singing out sad songs every hour on the hour, At what point does it become too much, I wonder
What are we made of? Are we wooden, crafted out of beautiful trees from somewhere, Or are we plastic, made in an assembly line, and if so, who’s sweat was put into us?
Which room of the house are we put into? In the living room, where everyone spends their time looking at us? Or in the bathroom, where it’s just one set of eyes watching us at a time? Or maybe we’re moved around a lot, with a million different eyes on us, never content with our placement
And are our batteries changed? Are we kept up with? When will we need to depend on others to tell us what time it is? Or will we all one day become ruined with battery acid?
And when we one day are no longer able to muster up the gears to make ourselves the sons and daughters of the eyes that watch us, where will we go?