Poetry Volume 1

Defective

My senses slowly fade,
Much too quickly for my age.
I feel I'm dying as I say:
"I think I'm defective"

My eyes let the world,
Slowly fade away.
Watching blurs turn to grey,
Spiralling into blindness.

Sounds grow dull,
Words start going missed.
I wait for the day,
Sounds fail to ring,
In my ears, around my head.

I'll soon forget the way,
My body moves and sways,
Mind and movements grow further away.
Each step leaving me,
Closer to paralysis.

Lethargy takes my tongue,
Words soon too hard to say.
I cry knowing one day,
I won't speak of pain.

But why should I be perfect?
I was never meant to be here.
Product of a defect:
Leaving me defective.