The Rubber Duck

Something small sits on my desk

It has little meaning to me.

The small object sits, unmoving.

It has scratched green paint, and a deformed head,

slightly tilted in one direction.

What was it questioning?

Am I not good enough?

Am I supposed to do something?

Anything?

A shaking shudder, utter disbelief.

No.

No.

I refuse to be nothing.

I am life, I am silence.

I bring music to the world of depression,

Life to that of death.

How could such a toy determine my life?

It won’t.

But I can.