Take me back

                           please.

All this wisdom has made me weary.

  Like a sickness,

       it's etched into my lungs.

   And like rust, 

       it blooms between my joints.

Time has stolen all I once was;

in my proper place, it's left this-

                                                    this thing. 

The unwanted sequel to my imperfections.

They don't speak. 

They rarely cry. 

Their running is neverending and they

        cannot 

slow down.

How could you want to be friends with us?