scantily clad algorithms.
brushing up on the finer points of lost on the world languages.
I bathe in galaxies of media washing down the medications.
I'd like to think I numbed the finer points of my suspicions.
Im dressed up in the swagger of my androgyny.
kiss Mother Nature with my feet.
fuck the world with the words tongue in cheek.
I'm blessed with the colours of my imagination and cursed with the body that covers these fragile bones.
all this and more I evolve with courage behind a keyboard.
I don't have to really have this face , my swagger immaterial to the fact that my throne sits in the silky shadows of bits and bots.
human, perhaps once was.
wallet, puppet, consumed by a gossipy matrix of advertised red carpets.
that's me, that's the real me.
and in the fantasy world of clickbaits I find you to be the soluble definition of companion I ever needed.
I'll definitely add you to the collection of friends acquired through my most social of mediums.
YOU ARE READING
Salad Days
PoetrySad poems from sad and angry times. Written from a juvenile time (14 years old) to older. That's what you get when you leave a teen to ponder reality. A pen hits reality harder than high school survival. Original Art from Vivianne Rheaume
