Made of dark African wood
The shell is a lid to a shallow
             Box.
The turtle
Has a painted shell
Dots of red and yellow
Bought years ago when just a teen
No doubt an ungiven gift
Now a
Memento.

The only time you talk to me is when you want ***, but all i want is to be more than an object.

"i want you", "let's ****", it's all that you'll say, but what would be great is for you to call me first the next day.

Why can't i be more than a body to touch? i guess these days that is asking too much.

He is my saving grace.
He is my grave.
Without him I cannot breath.
With him I will always have only him
All or nothing.

I hate myself.
But when im around him I can forget all this.
This really hurts.
*I dont want to drown but im already sinking

That is a lot of gold,
Missy.
Everything is metal,
it attracts me like the
reflection.
That is a unique thing,
Darling.
It brings me to
introspection;
is life vast? is there more,
for instance, than
that shiny--?
The word jumps from my lips
but you,
Sweetheart,
are bought for a high price.
The bidder is my heart.
Please try not to  object
to my being so objective.

this kind of desperation gets repetitive
and i forget the words i used to know
just to make more space for your name

and it overflows from between my lips
and dribbles down my chin, to my pen
onto the letters i will never think to send.

you were the passing breeze
the humming sound of working bees
the touch and go motion of a strip tease  
like sitting in a waiting room,
hoping you will finally find me.

Our heads are the most terrible place, you know.

And I’m glad that he cannot possibly exist there, not actually. If I try to fit him in my boxes, place him in my categories, I’ve removed every bit of his individuality.

Individuality is what makes us who we are. So if I remove the thing that makes him who he is, I’ve removed him entirely.

So it’s a paradox, you see.

The boy out there in the world cannot possibly exist in my head

yet I spend all my day thinking of him.

I’m thinking, rather, of the objectivity of who he is.

I like the idea of the object-boy — it’s simple, it makes sense.

The object-boy fits in all the right boxes, he slides right into my assumptions and conclusions.

He never has a care, he is perfect and is spotless and is happy and is robotic.

He is not real.

He cannot be real. And I’m so very happy, because perfect people tend to be a bore.

How Edison and Tesla warred
To be the first to capture light.

A replacement for fire
And an ode to the sun.

Guiding travelers
Across sky, land, and seas.

Balming my hungry skin with rays
When I’m jonesing for the sunshine.

Bringing life to what was once still
Shadows dance across glowing plains.

Illumination to our world
No longer constrained by dawn and dusk.

The power of storms harnessed
To fuel our weapon against the dark.

Transcending to be hopes beacon
Against all fear.

Miniaturized to be as small as a dot
Oh how we hunger for our light.

That blank, white, round face
Almost filled to the brim with apathy
As I regard it from afar.

Quietly ticking and tocking
Bearing witness to us all
Almost everywhere
As if to emphasize
The impossibility of escape.

It is omniscient yet knows
Nothing
Telling us with 12 numbers
2 spinning “hands” and 44 small lines
Everything.

It aggravates me
That men thought wise in ages past
Gave power to a thing so trite and unassuming
By desiring to order the abstract.

If I were to suddenly to abandon it
I may be thought of as insane.
But how can you not be
When it is not the sun
But the beat of
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
That continually spins the world?

I don't know what to say.
I can't even explain to you how I feel.
I guess in simple words,
I feel used and abused.

You were everything to me.
I cared so much about you.
I gave you everything I could.

What was I to you?
Just some *** object you can use and abuse?
Just a *** object so you can fill your fantasies.

Did you even see who I was underneath my skin?
Did you see me as me?
Did you just hide me behind the images of your *******?

What was I to you?
Just some *** object you can use and abuse?
Just a *** object so you can fill your fantasies.

Well I got some news for you.
Listen to what I have to say real close.
I am human being.
I am a girl with a open heart.
You took advantage since I fell for you hard.
You broke my heart.

What was I to you?
Did I mean nothing at all?
Just a *** object you can use and abuse.
Just a *** object to fill your fantasies.

Your compliments mean nothing.
When I look you in the eye,
I can see that you just told me a lie.
I tried to hold on.
I guess I tried too hard for far too long.
I am finally to the point, where I am just numb.

What was I ever to you?
Just some *** object you can use and abuse?
Just a *** object to fill your fantasies.
That is what I was to you.

I wonder if there will ever be a day when people will stop treating each other like possessions.
You'd think that in kindergarten we had been taught how to share.
“Everyone gets a turn,” our teacher would say.
"Five seconds at the water fountain after recess.
Pass along the book to the person next to you.
Share your box of crayons with those at the table."
We were taught how to share the tangible
The objects at our feet.
But what my teacher never taught me was how to share the intangible-
Concepts such as time, trust, and love.
Ultimately at the end of the day she never taught me how to share people.
The problem with people is that you want to keep them-
Keep them close
Keep them tight
Keep them safe.
You don't want to take turns because you fear that they will find someone who is better than you.
That one day they will leave because you were not enough.
So to suppress our paranoia we resort to rules and regulations.
We employ the facade that what we are doing is out of love
When in reality we are living in fear.
People are not possessions.
We are human beings
Capable of emotion and free will.
We are granted the ability to choose
For that freedom is what distinguishes ourselves from the rest.
We are not objects upon a shelf
To be taken down when felt like or guarded like a metal safe.
We are not punching bags
To be used at one’s disposable.
We are not mountains
To be climbed and conquered.
We are human beings
Yet humanity continually treats each other as if nothing.