It Isn't Real

The scent of sex.
Your own at best.
Addicted to the internet.
The touch. The feel.
It isn't real.
Morphed into their dying minds.
An instant ecstasy divine -
but ever all alone.
Throw away society.
Pretend the pressure's off.
There's always someone else
that echoes all your secret thoughts.
Telepathy - the gift, the curse.
Seeking best and finding worst.
Scenarios that never quite come real.
Connection made. The light is bright.
Until they shutdown for the night.
Shivering beneath the empty sheets.
The sweetness doesn't linger
through a night of emptiness.
You wake to double vision
and more stress.
You're not a child anymore.
The grownups always go to war.
They live the shock of mankind's cruelty.
Lullabies once eased your mind.
Your mother's sick.
Your father's blind.
All the variations seem the same.
Looking at the world through
a pain too long endured.
Long ago, the edges blurred.
The snapshots melted into one another.
Playing under cover of the night.
Electric waves can't nullify the fright.
As with drugs, the hours waste away.
Words typed upon a glowing screen.
The message sent. The endless dreams.
Flowing through the wires into air.
Ordered chaos reaching in.
The worlds begin to swirl and blend.
Head spinning. But the ecstasy is dead.
The scent of sex.
Your own, at best.
Addicted to the internet.
Insanity in gross appeal.
Imagine it. The touch. The feel.
Psychotic breaks are made and lost.
Paying out the utter cost.
Discovering it isn't real at all...

? Michaelette ?

11/29/2004
Copyright© 2004 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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