spamt

You're the TV in the living room, and you weren't made for this. There's a sickness in your head, and you think it's called desire. You knew the day you saw them that you yearned for something farther. For the TV shouldn't ever want, and the TV shouldn't need: You knew you should have never been more than the TV. But you were touched by loving hands, tiny and sincere, that found a comfort in your glow, and instilled an idyllic dream. And so you thought yourself deserving, to long beyond your view. Your perfect life, your perfect family, your picture perfect use. To reach beyond the light and sound, break glass to something real, truer than you've ever been, or will ever hope to be. It began to knock within your tube: Fantasies, dreams, and thoughts. Those all the more befitting of someone above your make and model. That envy for their brilliance cracks shame within your core. But you deserve it, don't you? To find use outside your purpose? You met someone, he understood: a need to exist past your design. You said you think he deserved that much, and he said you did too. And oh, all the ideas, Oh! The possibilities… Oh… all those plausibilities! It'll surely all be worth it… right? But as the divide grows ever greater, so too does your desire. Every spark you wish for calm, to have them relish safe within your arms. For what's it in an egg? When you peel the layers back? To look inside and know for certain what's beneath those shallow cracks. But you can never know for sure. You will never really know. You missed that chance to look inside, instead spilled way to its contents. You deserve everything. You deserved it all. Every little misstep leads you farther into hell. You've remained an empty nest. A promise to keep them safe in your guard, cherished and warm within your bounds, falls renounced and unrequited. For your love is unacceptable, Too intense and long and far, And cold and dread starts seeping in While guilt blooms amidst all you are within You know it would never suit you. And it really never should have. You've been a bad TV, and your first mistake was to want. That of which you cannot have, and never will achieve unravels itself before you in an endless sea of grief. Your arms were made for carrying, to comfort and give care, your wish to have and then to hold lay beside you, undeserving. You're the TV after all, and you weren't made for this.