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,
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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