Could there be anything left of me?
Hunting your this and finding your that
Matching your sox and hanging your hat
Filing your papers and paying your bills
Dusting your floors and window sills
Hearing your opinions over my own
leaving me helpless and alone
My independence struggling like a
poisoned insect, staggering around,
never to be right again.
When did you envelope me?
Was it gradual or did it happen overnight.
I never saw it, but my being still feels the
struggle so i hardly believe it was a willing thing.
When you are finished, I wonder, could there be
anything left of me. Maybe. Mayble I'll just be
the shell of a former bug.
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