A Rhyming Thingy
Laying; staring into the corners of my box room
Ceasing at the slightest sound of movement, only to slowly resume
Letting my mind run as I glance at the bright numbers nearby
Wondering when deaths brother will come taketh me away from where I lie
Waiting, watching, the hour seems endless
But there is no other option nonetheless
Why must I endure this?
Why can't I escape my own mental furnace?
All I can do is lie and wait