Wrapped in a present I sit,

This box is dark and cold

Trapped in this present I sit

I can’t seem to pry my legs out of the box.

The paper smells crisp and old

I’m trapped here, with my eyes watching

Waiting for the crinkly tear of freedom

I can hear it

Almost see it

Far away,

From this box.

This box has a metal handle

That twists and plays music

Joyous huh,

Not when you’re standing on it like a boombox.

My legs are tired, my feet can’t walk.

When I am opened, I’ll just spin-

And talk, and talk.

A never ending job I’m destined to.

Until she leaves for an hour,

I’ll sit like goo.

In this box

Waiting to be alone

With nobody home.