it is sufficient, i guess? that in the middle
of my self-perusement, seeking words dropped by others
into the overgrown grave of the internet, a pleasure tinged
with guilt at this wilful probing into someone's self,
picking words and phrases like blind fish to starlight,
drawing on thoughts and mind-babbles and pensiveness, when i am ready
to craft words of my own, pin butterflies to pixels, to cast my own die
of course it is then that worlds intrude - your fault
for picking the family study to pick up the strands of your alternity.
selfish of you, to blame that game he is so absorbed in,
lurid bullets flashing through sights and
sounds of death and cartoon murder trickling in, the murmur
of plans made for tomorrow and
whotakesthecarareyoupickinghimupfromschool
who asked you to be on msn and skype anyways? this is why
you don't sleep till three am, and guilty pleasures must be enjoyed
in secret.