Sighing wears me down,
Like a curry does toilet paper.
You would never guess,
who makes the hands go round
with lethargic discontent,
flooding out of orifices.
Echoing from his glutinous frame,
He voices his apathy,
Comments on my person.
The world might fit in his mouth,
I wonder. He has
No reason, I feel,
To sigh. I am done,
With observing mocking tonsils,
Dancing at my ego like the snakes of medusa,
Laughing at my gaze, but crying at my eyes.
My heart conforming to stone, as
O2 is mugged from my pockets, the seed
Of dislike is germinating,
It is hard to figure,
How much I hate sighing,
And how utterly depressing
It must be
To have me around.