Cats on a Window Sill

There are the miniature cats thatsit on the windowsill.They aren’t real,but they’re the closest friends right now.

They are completely wooden.And their eyes are drawn on with red crayon,wide enough to pierce into your pupilsand break into your skull.

They’re looking at youand the rain drips on the window pane.

And they say in unison:I don't get high from you.I don’t get a high from this.I don’t want to bother,but we both know you’re not okaywith the bliss.

You keep scrolling on bright screens,But we both know we search for world difference.And no one ever tells youhow to make it with greens.

For we know what you yearn for.We know that we all may dieWithout any set vice,now you must think of the why.

Why are you stuck here.Why do you lie on that couch.Where do you go from herewhen any day you could pounce.

We only look outside,but we don’t see anything.We’re all only robotsand we may or may not have meaning.