A walk in the park
Where there is some talk
Of raising the Snark
Misguided remark.

There is no conclusion
That I could envision
To plunder delusion
And clear the confusion

While we may contest
That theories attest
His morbid diffusion
Just leave him to rest.

I am numb to the kindness they give me
But sensitive to the needles they ***** me with:
The ones that were supposed to numb all of me up
At once.

Feed me with
favorites, re-tweets
and likes

Feed me with
hearts as
flat as knifes

Feed me with
double taps
and false reality

Feed me with
comments
from a celebrity

Stroke me
gently and
repeatedly

My ego
enjoys a timely
delivery

It's
strange
to
me
to
write
one
word
at
a
time
on
each
line.

Who
speaks
like
that?

Poetry,
I
think,
should
be
a
conversation
between
you
and
your
soul.

Your
soul
may
not
understand
unnecessary
intermittent
pauses.

Well.

I
don't
understand
unnecessary
intermittent
pauses.

Case
in
point:

Writing
this
was
difficult.

(It's
probably
a
literary
weakness.)

I
imagine
that
a
soul
would
speak
in
at
least
partial
sentences
without
such
halting
spasmodic
twitches.

Unless it doesn't. I am not your soul. If you find wholeness and depth and truth by writing this way, then carry on.

*******.

(There's the rhyme. There's always a place and a time for convention.)