nothing is real; everything is a facade within itself, a paradoxical version of myself; no matter how much i touch the earth, i am not on it. i am not on it. my fingers are in the dirt but i am not on it. i can swipe my hand through faces and they dissipate and reconstruct into pixels never known and i can grab at flowers and pick them only to have them regenerate into sameness. nothing in this world is free except happiness they say. but that's fake; it's all fake. happiness costs a lot and i am poor these days. i hand the cashier my savings in bleached bones but he glitches traumatically and turns me down. all of this is a facade and i am not here. if i was, i would be treated better. i would be a princess. i would be rich. i would be happy. but people are disinterested and falling apart at the seems of this poorly crafted game. i can read the binary codes and i know all the secrets now. you people can't fool me, earth can't fool me. this is fake. you are fake. i am fake. i am fake.
r.k.
YOU ARE READING
Meathead Monologue
PoetryI wanted everyone and everything; all the time and all at once. [volume ii] [poetry and prose] [2017-2019]
