Heavy

Life is being sucked out of me as the days go by.

Memories of your existence replay over and over.

When the baby cries, I cry.

Starvation eats me from the pit of my intestines.

Your life, as well as three others, copied on my fifteen inch screen.

Portrait and horizontal.

Memories of their lives in 4k resolution.

I cry, when the baby cries.

What if one day it’s her reliving my good times.

Will it penetrate her heart as it does mine?

Four years in this chair, I never realized that I can adjust it.

The pain has become part of me.

The feeling of discomfort is part of me.

My back carries the pain of the ones who grieve.

My posture is no longer poise.

When the baby cries,

I cry.

The scent of her innocence keeps me alive.

A new frame to work on while she closes her sweet eyes.

I remember a time when I knew not of this trait.

Just like everyone else, waiting to see.

But now, I recreate the past.

I have the power to make it look happy or sad.

Music notes have the impact that one only experiences in the cinema.

I’m so drained.

I don’t even write anymore.

What was I doing before this?

I can’t even remember.

Stories left unfinished,

Frame left unedited.

Coworkers wondering how I can keep my headphones on for so long.

“just let her work” my boss says.

I cry.

Like a baby.

In this uncomfortable chair,

I'm heavy, and,

I cry.