Tunnel visions

Some­times I seem too ordin­ary.
I con­sider (too much) how I appear to the cam­eras.
Click and whirr, be free my ima­gin­a­tion, such as.
It is. What little remains. Go.

I can laugh at noth­ing. For hours on end.
With dead end echoes for com­pany. Com­pany.
I’m sure we all want to hear the joke. Joke.
Speak up, we all want to hear it. Hear it.

This isn’t fuck­ing poetry. Verse and averse.
This isn’t poetry about fuck­ing. Averse.
Inhabit the echoes, and I’ll let you
Live a little longer.