Are you a burnt little matchstick?
Struck against scraping sandpaper
Till you shine bright enough to be a star,
But the joy of being enough is robbed by the end, without going far.
Burnt, crippled, broken, and used,
Now showing no more potential nor promise,
You are thrown away by the world,
Tossed in a pile without a thought,
The light you brought, they forgot,
So they have simply left you to rot.
-Maya Desdemona
Your mechanical typing
Truly resembles clockwork.
Although I am aware
That you are, at present,
Heartlessly and mindlessly at work,
I cannot help but compare you to clockwork.
The many gears of your mind are turning,
Your hands continually typing,
Your soul is now nonexistent,
And your heart seems to have failing power.
Such a lively person so lifeless,
Can even strike something called pity,
Yet I know you well,
And can only cackle at your half-heartedness.
But my, What is this?
It seems my laughter has raised your spirits,
And now you happily chat with me,
While your work lays forgotten.
– Maya Desdemona
Luminousis 