Made To Feel Small;

He’s marked by illness, gets his syringes from a pharmacist but the pills he takes to lessen this disposition; He stands so small, you make him sit, until he doesn’t stand at all; the concept of satiation becomes a never ending hunger, and he can never get full. You’re a glass half empty that he craves to make whole; you can’t hold hands with someone who’s riddled with holes. He’s told to make the best of it but you detest what you cannot own; he’ll never be the man you want ‘cause you can’t beat him down. What you can’t feel you fake with a pen, already borrowed, twice removed; a pseudo-prophet always bended at the knee; just a step below the waist. A fool is still a fool reflected back at her, forced glamoury has its pitfalls. He wears a sweater that’s ten times too small, hangs on his frame but doesn’t wear on him, well. You’re wearing stilts, he’s made to feel small again; it wears on him. He spends his time on more trivial pursuits, like cold drinks; distant animals, ornate wall paper, and hanging his heart on his sleeve; a perpetual, real life hang(ed) man for all to see. Swollen sites and stinging bruises, he finds it hard to dream anymore; are we the dreamers or are we the damned? And the kids on the streets are they to be pitied? or feared? A fool is still a fool no matter how elaborate the design.