I am stuck standing,
my joints permanently rusted solid.
I can only whimper out screams.
Nobody comes; people know me,
people I have loved,
yet none come to help.
No one comes to oil my poor joints,
to get me moving again.
So I stand, listening, watching.
I stand as roots grow intertwined with my feet.
I stand as vines spread throughout my body,
leaving my body even more stuck,
with no hope, even with help.
I am a Tin Man without help, friends.
I am a Tin Man who's alone.
And as soon as my mind escapes that denial,
I become a Tin Man who cries.