by Nick Gisburne
I miss my old imaginary friend.
We talked. We played. We laughed until it hurt.
But something in my dreams began to bend.
It took away the bliss and gave me Bert.
He likes to play with knives, to steal, to smash,
To tell me I’m a stupid little boy.
His moods can melt, or shatter, in a flash,
Despising every pleasure I enjoy.
I try my hardest, try to make him smile.
I do whatever Bert decides is best.
The doctors put his mischief in a file,
And gave me something sweet, to make me rest.
I know that Bert is waiting. When I wake
He’ll find another piece of me to break.
