Utensils

Crumpled up papers sitting across your desk.

Three in a row,

Each one of them represents a head.

They twirl and turn.

No matter what you do, you cannot set them straight.

Each their own individual, you probably think it's great.

No.

Instead, you scream and you yell as if you have been betrayed.

So, they cry while you whine- all the while enduring hate.

Because maybe they're criminals in the nightmare of your mind.

Someone had stole your key and brought your thoughts straight to life.

They did nothing wrong, they're only- simply- passerbys.

They ask what they did, a glare being your only reply.

Three small erasers try to erase their mistakes.

But, that's not who they are.

They're torn up- they believe it's fate.

You never change as they attempt to perfect themselves for you.

When met with outrage, the demons are who they listen to.

Three brave sharpeners, beginning to believe.

As they object, all you have left is grief.

Your tears and guilt don't affect the sharpest one.

Try to dull it down- you can't.

The damage is already done.

Two small pencils, try to prove their point.

The third one has left to start a better joint.

An empty spot that sits begins to gather dust.

You never owned your things,

You never earned their trust.

I sit here writing about what I did.

Learned to stand up for myself, took me off your grid.

An entire lifetime of nothing but disguise.

Family isn't all blood is what I realized.

Therefore,

This is my final goodbye.