55 Poems by Patrick Rost - #4: Interception

talking into codeboxes,
typing nothing in such depth,
gorgeous words of epiphany,
a dream slept quite sinfully,
but overdone,
sleep all day,
type into a box,
with nothing to say.

How can I begin to speak,
the shameful taste'll red my cheek
and rush my blood down to my feet,
my mental reflex incomplete,
interception,
the game is through,
do just what the others do,
when you act out of line,
they seek to place blame on you.

Tired, lonely, separate soul,
rather mope than up and go,
and kick around the idea of,
broken contexts, banished love,
brandished mope,
sweep uniform the floor,
watch the news till you'll stand no more,
and wait for a call,
that at your core,
you know you don't deserve anymore.