Object

There's a reason this poem doesn't have a rhyme,
It doesn't have a beat,
Make you tap your feet,
Sure a couple of words will fit,
But when I'm talking about you...how can it work?
How can I talk about someone who's an object to me?
With a beat, a rhythm and a harmony?

I remember sprinting down the street,
In my freezing bare feet,
My new replacement dad was standing there - you,
But you are no replacement,
I know I'll never get him back,
And I could do with a fatherly figure in my life,
But all you've given me is pain,
Bruises that heal,
And along with them - bruises that don't,

When I think back through my life,
Millions of images flash through my mind,
Like the first time I tied my shoe laces,
Or the first time I rode a bike,
I cherish these images,
The good, the bad,
But when the image of you runs into my head,
I don't even feel it, it's like I'm watching someone else's thoughts,

You mean nothing,
I've realized that recently,
I don't care anymore,
I can't look you directly in the eye,
You're an object,
No-less than an object,
You're a spec of dust,

You are real,
I know,
I'm not saying you're not,
Sure - you have blood, lungs, a brain...all the things I have,
But they are all just jumbled together,
With no purpose,
You're just there,
A life support system,
That's supporting nothing,

Because there's nothing to you,
You're just an object,
Who can hit very hard...