Midnight Poet Strikes Again, 2
I’d turn it on,
yet ignore how hypnotic.
My predictable movement of routine robotic.
My gaze is gripped.
And I know I’ve slipped.
But the gram is sweet and easy to follow.
I swipe and stroke.
And watch other folk
A sugary diet convinced I should swallow.
My fingers have rooted me
I thought that this suited me.
But chemically fixed and crucifixed,
I, my rowing team’s lone member,
Am stuck in my ice as I row in December.
My chances forked over, my gold has been lent,
And this hypnotist’s soulless intent?
To the depository he went.
Knowing that it’s unsustainable,
All those hours, unreclaimable,
My conscience with it’s wonderful muse
Who Knows better (And helps me to write this letter)
Gives me it’s angelic kiss
And saves me from this near miss.
The goddess’ reminder
that my game resets
with no regrets
If I nap and forget the snap-.
Say “I am” and ignore the -gram.
Use thoughts complete
to trump the tweet.
And so I turned it off.
- Matthew LaBanca, Midnight Poet Strikes Again