an example of why i should just write a story instead.

perched atop my desk, you rest
it's late in the evening, and i'm in search of
a sweet thing- you aren't so flawless,
but the day is ending and i've cut all my losses

you're there when i need you, you're vast and
unrelenting- your love is unending.
but you're cruel when you misspeak, you're
the issuance of death and the formality of ends

sweet thing, you're faceless
and last i heard, you're sour to the tasteless
it comes from deep down, in the sine of
your intestines - you brag of good intentions

silence bound to a button, you can be
twisted to a whisper - only a whimper.
you are a voice in the dark, moving bodies
swimming around, you are resonating sound