i am a product
born for your consumption
everything you read, you think you know is
of the truth
behind your screens your fingers reach
jesus fucking christ don’t tell me what else they do-
you might as well have photographs
of bart simpson
or some long-dead silent movie actress
pasted to your walls
you know them better
they’re more real to you
than i will ever be.
you can’t handle it, can you?
the thought of someone being fake, imaginary
the thought that what i give you is only the dregs
of my mind
the reality that when i am lying in bed
breathing smoke and truth
you are nowhere near
i was created
to give you something to do
i am plastic, something chemical
multi-syllabic, hard to pronounce
and listen to the pretty sounds i make.
you have no idea
and in the middle of your ignorance
your carefully crafted not knowing
i exist in the mind
of someone else.