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.