It is a new year
not a holy day, or some plot
by the herd that tries to
separate one's being from another.
Stampeding, as I get kicked by hooves
(who haves and who've had)
till my contact lens finally goes dry,
drops, suddenly there is only blurry vision
of you.
Is it getting better?
Did I leave a bad ringtone in your phone?
I ask you for forgiveness,
you tell your carrier I'm a psychopath.
Well that went well, for a little bit.
I have all your photos maybe someday
I'll delete all of it.
You asked me a question,
and no they'll never be online!
The only thing you left online
was a button saying 'online',
a button I'd long ago altered
with whiteout and a skilled hand.
I had been a scribe then,
now all I am is a poet.
Or so I type to you,
does it matter you don't know it?
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