Putting the ‘p’ in apathy

Lulled by false promises of comfort,
I take the hand of apathy
who leads me into a stuffy room,
sits me down,
flicks on the TV,
and shuts the door.

“There,” he smiles,
“isn’t that better?”
“Huh?” I manage,
unable to unstick my eyeballs from ten-eighty-p.

But that truer part of me pulls my head,
the glue stretching from my pupils ‘til breaking point,
then snaps,
pings,
slapping back into my skull
like the starter cord of a lawnmower,

my brain splutters into life,
puffing from the spongy grooves,
a throbbing, greying mass of matter,
self-aware once again,
and knowing that this is no day to be locked up inside.

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