A mangled bird slumps in her gilded cage
Surrounded by opulence and feasts she cannot savor
Golden bars festooned with rolling joints and popping bones
A doll sewn by a child's hand
Pull her thread as she buckles like a blueberry
Blood
A viscous syrup in her legs
Sticky confluence
Heartbeat like a hummingbird
The nectar would likely cause an eruption of glowing pink hives
A rosy sanguine sea
Vision blurring
Rumination like hands on a clock
Round and round
Living days like
Copy, paste
Groundhog's Day
Oh, look, it's night again
Ice packs and Epsom baths
Erratic dreams
The clock resets
Oh, joy, it's day again

The push-button world is made for poets w/ CFS. We simply push buttons & our poetry comes into the world on the same level as virtual reality, AI & video games & the Internet; therefore it is more than likely that one poet (beginning w/ a group or movement but ultimately one superstar) will supersede all others & all other communication. This would entail a paradigm shift or such a radical transformation in the zeitgeist akin to the effect produced by Martin Luther on the church; except it the corporate media empire which is challenged: principles of the 'dark' web synonymous & in sync w/ the collective psyche. That push-button poet, the greatest that ever lived in any language, w/ be feared for the push of his button; the corporate structure shaking like the tower of Babel it is.

Head exploding
life seems too fast
to find out what I'm thinking
I wonder if my strength
is going to last.

I crawled into bed
with you last night
first time in years
we've been segregated
by my exhaustion
and my fears.

To feel your flesh again
made my headache worth it
but nothing will take away
the ache that I feel
for the love of myself.

Self acceptance is what I need
I'm better than I thought
but the lingering mistrust
of how I'm going to be
scuppers me at every turn.

If I could just relax
on the inside
and let my self be happy
I think I would be happier.