Not for my food, my body, or my feet.
I barely feel the motion of my seat
As I away back and forth. I cannot sing.
I lack even the anger I would bring
To feeling sick. I only feel defeat.
I have no strength to rouse myself or greet
The day. I'm strung up in a string
Of my own emptiness. It numbs the pain
So that I barely register it anymore,
But do not truly feel any relief.
I want to sleep. My eyelids will not wane
Which makes me almost wonder what they're for
But wondering is work beyond belief.
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