bleary fog from long-gone nights
reading over records of past plights
vaguely remembering a black chair,
light streaming down on a computer desk, connection barely there

old poems, scraps from people who no longer exist
contrived and angry letters to former lovers who'd pissed
away their time with me, caught in eternal hourglass
Spectacle ticking away, each second their last

mass-produced poems, grasping for straws
fleeting pleasure whenever a barrage of likes came along
a picture here, witty title placed there
but the attention didn't transfer when I took to the air

and now I sit here, three years removed from that path
beaten down to Earth's core where we screamed and we laughed
millions of people pushed into a tiny space
only kept afloat by unscrupulous advertisers' grace

it's quiet now.
but now I can hear myself.
and I wonder, what event next
will send me barreling towards hell?