I, Your Walking Plaything


I could hear the truth in your words
Even as you vomited your adulation
All over my ego:
You didn’t want my spirit,
My mind,
Or my critique;
You only desired my attention
And any pleasures I could manage.
You’d have me as a husk,
Lifeless but moving, serving one purpose;
And you, my geth, to mold me as your creation.
Though I would retain vital functions,
Beneath the flesh, I would be your comfort zone,
Your ego booster, telling you what you want to hear,
Rattling off automated garbage
Programmed to satisfy your every whim.
I would not be human, with individuality
Or a will apart from yours;
In essence, I would be your walking plaything,
Here only to fuck and to lie
Until my batteries died,
Because you’re too cheap to buy me new ones.


Mistress of Erebus


You came to me
In the black of the night:
Mistress of Erebus,
Broken and bleeding
With those eyes so red.
I had fancied you an angel,
Yet you deigned to look to me,
To seek solace in my words.
Alas, I was a myth
You had built up in your head:
Nothing real, no savior
To enlighten you or drag you
From the blackness that has consumed you
And racked you with guilt,
Forcing you to wear a mask
You think the world wants you to wear;
Despite all that, you showed me the real you—
The one so few have seen—
The side fractured but beautiful all the same.
No doubt it was to your chagrin
You discovered I am no god
Or sage to vanquish your troubles
And erase your sorrows;
I am but a man
In the presence of a goddess,
And even though I have failed you,
Had only a fraction of time in the universe
To hold you,
I love you.

The Quondam Friend, Now a Fraud


You stand before me:
Tall, poised, identical
To the friend I’ve known
For a lifetime and more.

Down to the fluctuation
Your voice resonates,
And to the flick of the wrist
Each movement impeccable.

To the unknowing eye
You are the same:
Unchanged, unadulterated
Just maybe older.

But you are a graphic image,
Something alike in appearance
But without the substance,
The defining qualities.

You are an imposter—
Different in character,
Altered in ideals,
Something feigned and different.

Striving to be something new,
You’ve stripped away your essence,
Lost the soul that gave you life,
Leaving a shell devoid of depth.



If I looked like you,
I’d stand in front of the mirror, too,
Staring at myself for hours on end,
Absorbing my own vanity.
You aspire toward perfection,
Blotting out flaws—
So many imaginary—
Concealing them with devices artificial.
I can’t help but wonder why.

What warped perception of humanity
Would make you desire the status of a god?
Man wasn’t made perfect,
And it is in our missteps and failures
That we become beautiful.
Nothing you veil your mortality with
Will ever do justice to what’s underneath,
And through just fabrication
You become mundane—something less than human.

Is it worth what you are afforded
To be regarded as less than what you are?
Can you walk to your death fulfilled
Knowing you’re deemed hollow by wandering eyes?
Do you think your flaws will not follow you to your grave
Or that immaculacy will define your existence?

Do not repudiate the fact that you cry, too,
And the tears slide down your cheek, eroding the mask you wear,
Revealing the truth beneath.
Yet you would have yourself manufactured,
Dispensing plastic tears that do not break or splash,
Proffering sacrifice to Mother Earth for another night of solace.
You crave the hollow, yearn for fallacious perfection,
And accept sordid imbursement.
I can’t help but wonder why.