Every minute I look up at you,
Seated high on your stable pedestal,
You glance away,
And don’t see me down at the bottom of the ladder.
My stare does nothing to drag your attention,
And the frolicking sirens do nothing to help,
The further I reach, the further you recoil,
Brushing nothing from your hands.
And with it comes the realization, that my hope is lost,
I dream of the impossible,
The unrealistic and the unreachable,
In a word, you.
Reality is a taste I experience far too often,
A foul morning taste in the back of my throat,
But unlike them, this is one that cannot be flushed away,
I have to live with it.
Your actions do little to ease my pain,
As you do not know how much I suffer at the sight and sound of them,
You do what your peers expect of you,
And do little to surprise anyone.
You regard yourself an icon, a royal in our society,
But in truth you are nothing but a jukebox,
Playing the tired, worn-out song over again,
As your minion monkeys dance to your tune, and that of no other.
Even those you have not befriended move along,
Not putting a foot out of place,
As they dance to the songs you, and only you, play,
Minions in a different sense.
I hate to like you, like I do,
But it is a feeling I cannot escape,
An infatuation of the overwhelming kind,
Which will never leave me.
Until I cease to be around you,
Your name will ring in my ears,
Your image will float across my vision,
And I will think of you,
Against my wishes,
And against my will.
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