It is tired.
It is sensitive.
Water falls like rain from a clouded iris.
It has so much to handle.
It struggles.
A throbbing drum forms in the intellect.
It needs to be cared for.
It wants attention.
Heavy air streams swiftly out of a hollow.
It is lonely at times.
It is insignificant.
Fingers rubbing the red portals into submission.
It is moody.
It strives.
Trudging onto the bunk, buried in unknown feelings, it slumbers with weighted thoughts.
*I wrote this poem at 3am, when I couldnt sleep
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