When I read George Orwell,
I can only think of you two having ***.
Tumbling, writhing in the sheets.
Mechanically organic.
Something I'll probably never be a part of,
sadly.

If only you could take a pick-axe to my chest,
Peer inside,
See it all, wet, glimmering body.
I think you'd understand.

Everytime I see you I try not to jump on you
Like a heavy dog
My owner is my dignity so I keep still
But I'm barking heavily (inside)

I've been known to let perfection slip
Unknowingly folding my hand
******* over my chances
At a game I haven't even played yet

If I was self-important, would you see me?