Pleasant Misery

While you anxiously glance at the time in your watch,
I’ll make sure I make you happy.
But then the look in your face,
The red, tiny, minute veins that extrangulate your eyes,
Maybe the whiteness in you artificial skin,
Or the misplaced hair in your beard.
Maybe, you don’t want happiness.
Now you take your corrupted eyes off your watch,
You glance at me,
I feel the desire, I feel the necessity,
And now you act as artificially and predictably as a robot,
You’ve fallen into the conventions of contentment.
My eyes turn against your presence,
They’re afraid of your actions, afraid of your repugnance.
But you still desire, ignoring the tear from my eye,
Ignoring the cry, turning it to a confused moan,
Criticizing my corpse, harming my lips, corrupting my aroma,
Consuming my soul.
Now the watch grabs your eyes once more,
But you’re not anxious anymore.
You glance at me,
You feel my pain, but not really.
You only pretend to feel my pain,
And while you get ready to destroy my life,
I want to make sure that I make you happy.