I am your neglected watermelon,
The one you have left in the fridge for far too long.
I feel that it is only right to inform,
Or perhaps it is only right to neglect your interests.
How do I manage to speak?
Is this a sign that you have met a breaking point?
Why does my disembodied voice seem to be coming from every which direction?
Is this a sign that I am a break in reality?
Perhaps the answers to these questions will never be answered,
But I do know that I have begun to rot.
My rhine is growing thinner by the minute,
And my meat is turning to a sugary mush.
My seeds wish to fall on the soil,
But there is none to be found.
But as to where to find this soil there may never be an answer.
My existence will not be in vein.
For if I were to be brought to your garden,
I would be able to fertilize the soil for the presiouse cantaloupes.
However do not fear;
Even with my seeds falling onto the ground we will have trouble continuing to grow,
For the veins which spit water near a termination from existance.
But if we were to grow near the cantaloupe we would have to go to war.
However, it would be extremely difficult for my sprouts survive being suffocated by the fully grown cantaloupes.
But then again, victory should be swift as the war rages onwards.
Who knows?
Perhaps what I have stated will fall upon deaf ears,
Perhaps what I have stated will fall upon the ears of the wise,
Perhaps what I have stated will fall upon the ears of monsters who feast upon cantaloupe.
But one thing is for certain:
I am withering away and must fulfil my life's purpose before all ears fall deaf to every word I say once again.
