Waking has robbed me of my poetry.
Words I had always oppressed
into replacing feeling
now flee before tidal apathy.
I can no more coax my pen to draw a fiction
that will pacify my sex-soaked mind.
I find myself starved for the feel of unfamiliar skin
and am surprised that I am yet unwilling
to take advantage of social acceptance of sexuality.
I am berated, supersaturated
with pre-packaged passion.
I am a prime demographic
with only just enough intellect to resent it.
Sell me your bones.
Sell me your consequent disgust;
But not your love.
For so precious a commodity
should not be bartered and dealt
like daily I am traded lust in large doses
for no more effort than to turn my head toward a billboard.
I have put forth so much of myself
to raise ramparts around my core
that maybe, just maybe
I have neglected what I protect.
I have gone hollow
behind my ramshackle battlements.
No pinpricks of interest trace the curve of my hips,
No emotion drawn close about my throat when you approach,
No epic tension set in the fibers of my jaw,
I have felt nothing for too long.
Nothing but dark preambles of romance
that wither when exposed.
Nothing but a manufactured innocence,
selective in focus and scope.
Desensitization fuels my solitude.
Myriad media numb by affections
Till I am left utterly bereft of sentiment.

01/02/2004

Author's Note: I just got so damed tired when trying to finish this that I just left the last three lines. The important thing is that I wrote at all. As always, criticism appreciated.

Posted on 01/03/2004
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