She sits at her desk in the dark,
there is a cube in her hand,
the cube that occupies her brain,
stops her from thinking too much.
Her hands twist back and forth fast,
solving the cube as many times,
as long as it takes for her to forget,
forget why she was doing it in the first place.
She doesn't even have to look at it anymore,
her muscle memory too strong,
too familiar to this situation,
more familar of this action then any other.
She doesn't eat, doesn't sleep.
She can't rest, not even for a second.
If she stops her demons will talk,
convince her of terrible things.
So she sits at her desk in the dark,
with the box in her hand,
the box that occupies her brain,
stops her thinking too much
YOU ARE READING
My Little Book Of Poems
PoesiaI've recently got into poems and I wanted to write some of my own.
