Ever wanted to know how a Kettle feels?
Ever wanted to know how a Kettle feels?
Kettle
My existence is that of eternal thirst. Man forces a legion of water into my cold steel belly. Which, from the pits of my stomach boils deep inside me like a bubbling volcanic suppression as my grey skin burns red. Then they have the audacity to pour my bowels out into a ceramic vessel that which they kiss. Never have I received such precious acts of affection; my existence is that of which to serve the selfish vices of human consumption, to fill their own belly. I can never readily drink nor taste the nectar that is ever so enticing to the lips of man, nor be given the gift of soft amorous guiles of tender bliss. Thus, my existence is that of eternal thirst.
Washing line
My existence is that of eternal servitude. I stand as an obstacle to a pallet of weather. Like a carousel stripped bare, I show the steely skeleton of a naked marionette. My will is disengaged by warm groping hands that strip me of any dignity and purge my natural frame with dressings of dampen clothe. Desperately I dance in the wind in the hopes of shedding such drab materials, like so many colourful fruits that ripen in the sun as they dry. Fibres tighten, contort into a multitude of shapes as my prison guard removes the shackles off my limbs only to cover their own bodies in the light of social norms. But when the sky is crying and I can see the backside of the sun, my punisher removes my chains in desperation and in a storm of freedom I dance in the wind and hail and showers, oh so cold and alleviating, my lust, my joy. Fleeting moments of light in eternal servitude.
Tissue box
They rip out my innards until I am empty, until the juice of my loins is run dry. Shamelessly, they rack their vile fluids into my precious morsels, my entrails of dry delights. The comfort they feel in desecrating my innocent body does not reach my own empty, square heart. They continue to reach, tear and mutilate my soft insides until I am no more but an empty vessel, which they will promptly discard. My existence has never had true meaning, ever since I was hacked away right before the faces of my family, green and tall. Yet, the darkness encroached and I felt my very flesh being hacked and changed, my form changed, it rolled, it churned until I wasn’t sure who I really was. I am one but I am many and I experience the same torment in hundreds of vocations, all destroying me at once. Over and over is my torture, until I am discarded and doomed to repeat the same process.
Dictionary
You never even endeavour to approach me with a question on your tongue, oh no. You just thrust me open and your eyes burn right into my body as you rake through pages to find your proposed question. You never ask me anything, but I know everything that which you seek. If you really wanted to know something, you would have given me a mouth. But I can feel your cold, clammy fingers on my hide and feel your eyes stinging my pages with probing declarations. I hear your gasp of realisation at your stupidity and plagiarise my knowledge in order to get your sordid “As”. A trite pathetic excuse for status in this world, which I would humbly refute had I a tongue in which to spite thee.
Might actually illustrate this. They were really fun to write. XD
Kettle
My existence is that of eternal thirst. Man forces a legion of water into my cold steel belly. Which, from the pits of my stomach boils deep inside me like a bubbling volcanic suppression as my grey skin burns red. Then they have the audacity to pour my bowels out into a ceramic vessel that which they kiss. Never have I received such precious acts of affection; my existence is that of which to serve the selfish vices of human consumption, to fill their own belly. I can never readily drink nor taste the nectar that is ever so enticing to the lips of man, nor be given the gift of soft amorous guiles of tender bliss. Thus, my existence is that of eternal thirst.
Washing line
My existence is that of eternal servitude. I stand as an obstacle to a pallet of weather. Like a carousel stripped bare, I show the steely skeleton of a naked marionette. My will is disengaged by warm groping hands that strip me of any dignity and purge my natural frame with dressings of dampen clothe. Desperately I dance in the wind in the hopes of shedding such drab materials, like so many colourful fruits that ripen in the sun as they dry. Fibres tighten, contort into a multitude of shapes as my prison guard removes the shackles off my limbs only to cover their own bodies in the light of social norms. But when the sky is crying and I can see the backside of the sun, my punisher removes my chains in desperation and in a storm of freedom I dance in the wind and hail and showers, oh so cold and alleviating, my lust, my joy. Fleeting moments of light in eternal servitude.
Tissue box
They rip out my innards until I am empty, until the juice of my loins is run dry. Shamelessly, they rack their vile fluids into my precious morsels, my entrails of dry delights. The comfort they feel in desecrating my innocent body does not reach my own empty, square heart. They continue to reach, tear and mutilate my soft insides until I am no more but an empty vessel, which they will promptly discard. My existence has never had true meaning, ever since I was hacked away right before the faces of my family, green and tall. Yet, the darkness encroached and I felt my very flesh being hacked and changed, my form changed, it rolled, it churned until I wasn’t sure who I really was. I am one but I am many and I experience the same torment in hundreds of vocations, all destroying me at once. Over and over is my torture, until I am discarded and doomed to repeat the same process.
Dictionary
You never even endeavour to approach me with a question on your tongue, oh no. You just thrust me open and your eyes burn right into my body as you rake through pages to find your proposed question. You never ask me anything, but I know everything that which you seek. If you really wanted to know something, you would have given me a mouth. But I can feel your cold, clammy fingers on my hide and feel your eyes stinging my pages with probing declarations. I hear your gasp of realisation at your stupidity and plagiarise my knowledge in order to get your sordid “As”. A trite pathetic excuse for status in this world, which I would humbly refute had I a tongue in which to spite thee.
Might actually illustrate this. They were really fun to write. XD