Are you a beautiful story,
Dying in a wasted magazine?
Or a plucky song,
Serene, yet tagged obscene?
Hovering in the chambers of nicotine smoke,
I see weighty dreams still afloat.
Do you smell of flesh and blood,
Or have you metamorphosed into a robot?
Fingers type and the mind crashes,
The pain is relentless.
The CPU goes on exerting itself,
And the task is endless.
If your lips move to the tune of this disharmony,
Let your beauty be left to rot.
If you cannot stand apart,
Stay bridled in your own thought.