Information Age

I.

A self-help book instructed me to give it a name,

but I gave it wings and feathers,

and, as if it were a kindness,

it strung me with weights and tethers.

It props itself on my shoulder,

singing right into my ear,

of cells, and tubes, and viscera,

of each soft, tangible fear.

It credits itself for my continued existence,

for not letting me burn both ends down,

it boasts that its fear of the water,

is the reason neither of us have drown,

and I've given it the only key,

to this dyed and painted prison,

I've followed into into a pulsing, dripping hell,

and I believe every word,

from it's sharp, pointed beak,

because it knows me so well.

II.

I watch her stumbling and dancing,

she is built out of everything that I'm not,

she says she's "here for a good time, not a long time,"

without a second thought.

Her eyes light up like cheap LEDs,

as she emits a magnetic sort of glee,

all while the endogenous and exogenous chemicals,

dance and fight inside of me.

III.

I've squandered so much of this life on fear,

and even more on the illusion of safety,

hopping from lifeboat to lifeboat,

while staring at the sea,

hoping to find some long lost piece down there,

that will reattach itself back to me.