We each are here,

In our own little boxes.

Every box is the same size,

But for a few.

The inside of each box,

Appears entirely different,

Than the one next to it.

Each has a character to it,

Tho I don’t know what mine is.

No one comes in,

But those who are paid to.

With the exception of one,

Who appears to enjoy,

The character within this box,

Not the décor, but myself.

I hate to leave this little box,

For the safety it offers,

Protects from those,

Who are outside their boxes.

The ones who don’t care,

If they hurt the character,

Or the feelings of whom,

Resides within my box.

I go out to the doctor,

Or to go to the store,

To buy food, I’ll never eat.

For I’m never hungry anymore.

I seem thin, pale and wan,

From lack of food,

And lack of sun.

But here I’ll stay,

Within my box,

Where no harm can enter in.

– van –

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