I am sick of this flame.
And of the other.

these silent days,
grinding,
my successes and failures
accent each other,
tell me such things
that I am capable of

and will not do.

but should, if maybe then

there are violent passions
in me,
somewhere,
awaiting
rebirths
poundings of skin on skin,
renewals of ideals
of no more computers,
coming back to life

but the ones and zeroes
haunt me,
this house holds me in,
my guts have numbed
my brain jumbled
and the confusion without care

they have taken, they have taken
all that am
and given me more
and more
tools to hide from
myself

and then,
the wait,
the grind,
the lackluster affairs

forced satisfaction with mediocrity,
with just surviving,
with a better digital image of myself