It’s Springtime, and I am twitterpated!
when our dreams
have all headed
when the memories we held tight
against our chest
only remain as tattered
I became trapped in a pixilated universe—
a virtual reality, I invested in a world
of people I couldn’t see or touch, but
procrastinators are able to do 30 minutes of work in 8 hours and 8 hours of work in the 30 minutes before it’s due
so much of love’s breath,
what can remain
when figures are confirmed,
Passion pricks patience’s fingers,
One does not look upon flowerpots with lust,
One does not tremble at the sight of a chair,
One does not lust for microwave ovens,
All objects without a heart,
All soulless objects without a chance of happiness,
But blessed by ignorance of their fate.
I am not so lucky,
I share their rank and fate,
But have been denied that blissful ignorance.
And I do not curse this because of a lack of sex,
But because in order to win any kind of love in this day and age,
You must naturally generate at least one iota of lust.
Maybe I’ll just take to fucking the flowerpots,
See if that takes me anywhere.