Pants.

I put some washing on but all I see,

Are those distinctive pants that call to me.

At cycles end I hang the clean clothes out,

But once again, those pants are all I see.

Whilst wrestling with the dryer all I see,

Are those same pants so clean and dry for me,

I summon other things to think about,

But floating pants is all my mind can see.

I put the clothes away so I can't see,

Those pants that have debilitated me,

I close the drawer whilst clawed by nagging doubt,

But all goes black, I'm blind, I cannot see.

I may have dreamt, I wake but still can't see,

But then there's light and I look down at me,

I get picked up and legs are slid inside,

And now those pants are all that I can be.

An understanding forms and now I see,

There's bum cheeks and a knob inside of me,

My hands reach down and I am opened wide,

The access to the pants that I must be.

The real me will never ever see,

That hypnotising pants have taken me.

The jeans are pulled up trapping me inside,

A daunting glimpse of what my life must be.

It's late, but trousers down at last I see,

It's bed time and the washing bin for me.

I'm still alive but part of me has died,

My life is pants but that's all I can be.