Life lacks sense without fantasy.
Take me back to my virtual reality.
Crushes and dreams empower me
more than past friends and family,
obligations that burden each day.
Held down to the dirt by gravity,
I reach through glass for an escape.
New love born of old lusts,
new life molded from dusts,
Out-of-body, in my own head,
I live a dead life and embrace
rebirth in virtual reality.
Life lacks sense without fantasy.
The twilight ahead me hid your face.
I saw my reflection in your place,
a burgeoning burden, future omen,
Cold War brewing each day.
I gifted distance as a grace.
I misread your response. Filled in the blanks
with the words I told others at your age,
but you are not the same.
Neither a broken branch nor a fallen seed,
you exist apart from me. I see shadows
I interpret as the battles
I fought at your age. I built walls to escape.
They grew between us through cracks left unfilled.
If I destroy them, will you build one of your own?
Blame it on the past that preceded your presence.
Blame it on the plague, but you are not sick.
Blame it on premonitions that I push you away,
but only I fulfill that prophecy. You are not the same.
I wipe the fog I mistook for a mirror
and see your face unblemished by my own.
I feel like I’m Frieza, a natural prodigy,
untrained but willing to change.
Sometimes a spark convinces me I can overcome
the gods if only my heart would beat again,
but no battle brings me alive. No world entices me.
I languish in hell in wait of an escape,
a wish I still take for granted. I said the words
to manifest my dreams into reality,
but the universe never understands me.
I wander the world a ghost trapped
between two dimensions and tangents.
Even if I possessed all the strength in the world,
lost in another dimension, I slip through, cracked.
Bring me back from the dead, I beg you.
I’ve grown so cold, but with you by my side,
I would transform. I would shine solid gold.
A single heart once fed me for days
fruitful with future possibilities
fueled by walking winter nights together.
You were drunk. So was I.
You on beer, I on sight,
but we both sobered quickly that night.
I knew from day one the dream would end,
but prolonged it with “let’s be friends,”
but we were never friends, just hobbyists.
We committed to different trades.
You were a teacher, and I was a slave.
You continued your vocation, but I changed.
I found now love made from plastic, vinyl, and metal.
My diet outgrew meat and moved toward grains,
fruit I could grow on my own.
I tired of the chase. I never caught what I wanted.
Even when I did, it never looked the same up close,
lacking the glimmer that trapped me a mile away.
Too many wrinkles, sour humanity,
not enough of the glamour I drew
from the hearts on screen that symbolized dreams.
They were only flashes of light, distractions
from a life I did not want to live. Now that I do,
the hearts float away like clouds
I’m unable to grasp, but nothing is lost.
I found peace in the asylum
roaming like a lion among the inmates.
They do not notice me—
they struggle with their own demons.
I once sought their sight,
but their eyes are a chain.
I threw away the leash.
I walk on my own through a world
I no longer know. Indistinct voices,
indecipherable sights line the arcade
but do not disrupt my day. Pandemonium
cascades into distant white noise.
I return home warmed by the flames
and cooled by the night that is all mine.
How far must I move from the bed
to prove I’m not dead, but awake?
Another body could offer evidence,
but then what value does life have
if solitude lacks substance alone
and truth is determined by democracy?
I was not the first to fall into fantasy.
I played with dreams like toys as others
made careers out of their conspiracies.
They have the right idea. I take life
too seriously. Gods, magical creatures,
and superpowers only I can feel.
I can embrace it all. I can make all dreams real.
The bed is but an object that senses perceive.
The only true reality is subjectivity.
The mirror calls itself light when sunny outside
but cannot be seen during the night.
Lovely platitudes grace its clean face
until something stands in the way.
The clouds will still come and the seasons
will change, but the mirror only shines
when the sun brightens the day.
At night, it’s just another wall.
No face exists underneath this mask.
3D printed plastic replaces old flesh
lined with vinyl to smooth out the shape.
A vice held the pieces in place
for three months outside direct sunlight
until the seams stitched together.
The gestalt of mismatched materials
gives the surface a marble expression.
Unmoving lips produce a voice now heard.
Unseen eyes hide but observe.
Painted contours imitate real life
and conceal true emotions from sight.
Shade from the heat and shield in the storm,
the sun does not frighten me anymore.
Grant me greater insight
to spot the spiders above me.
The sight frightens me less
than their unseen presence
when they lift me off my feet
and pierce me through my heart.
I can flee what I can see
before it kills me, but I distrust
senses that twitch at the wind.
They cannot discern dreams from reality.
I mistake strangers for soulmates
because of a nostalgic fragrance,
but if I actually saw through the glamour,
I would see nobody I knew or ever would.
I would walk through the fog
and open the door to a greater battle,
one that I could actually win,
because I trained all my life for this.
Not for love, but to win.
Emily Dickinson is back, bitches!
Exclusively on Apple TV+
for only five dollars per month or free
with the purchase of a new Mac or iPhone.
Fuck the Mandalorian and the Simpsons
beckoning us from inside the mouse house.
It’s a trap that will break your back once you step through.
Neither have been good for decades,
and the live-action Lady and the Tramp
is a piss-poor imitation of classic animation.
The Little Mermaid looks good, but that’s free on ABC.
I will not stop for Mickey, though he kindly stops for me.
His carriage has horses but no wheels
and travels in circles with the merry-go-round.
Fast, but always returning to where we started,
stuck in the past chasing after plastic figures
printed from the same mold. Some silver, some gold,
all cheap and unable to stand on their own.
The castle deteriorates. The theme parks fall apart.
The honeymoon approaches dawn.
Change the channel and support real poetry
in Dickinson, played by Hailee Steinfeld,
featuring Wiz Khalifa as death.
Let the past die. Kill it if you must.
No more bad live action remakes.
Embrace something new. Apple TV+.