This is me, neglected and obsolete,
I am incomplete.
This is me returning to my stability.
This is me giving up and learning not to feel a thing.
We all work, eat, sleep, repeat.
Every one is a machine.
This is me preparing my grave in the shade,
learning that everyone loses their place under the sun eventually.
This is me dealing with my discontentment and deficiency.
I am handing in my resignation and vulnerability.
My guts have been hollowed out.
There is nothing left for me to spill.
I'm covered in dust because my life has been sat on the shelf.
I'm a machine. I don't feel a thing.
This is me going back to bed, destroying all my intents.
This is me going back to bed, abandoning all of my friends.