I cannot write an honest poem
in the fear of losing you.
That the shutters of concern
will be lowered, as everyone
turns to face the screen instead.

I cannot deal with blind windows,
I cannot suffer in privation.
But the thought of eyes on me
and sustained conversation
leads me to blackout again.

The story rolls on
and days keep coming by.
The seasons change
despite my lack of animation,
and they cause me
to see the world as it is.

The Agentic State
has stolen our land
and human nature.
We swallow stillness with panic
and over-stimulation;
no chance for peaceful completion.

I cannot give you any truth,
when my truths got me here
in the first place. I cannot
write to you about the coastline
as I never get to hold it.

All I can do is remain in my place,
tarry within the comfort of lies.
If you allow me more time
in poverty, I will repay you
in thoughts turned to rhyme.

*Though I know you'd prefer cash.