Black page


Your life is a word document.
A bank of words; free,
yet there exist boundaries.

We long for love
some, slow-paced, affection.
Taking the front seat.
A warmth; reachable.

On the blank sheet,
We orchestrate our life.
A coarsening, refining black
taints the screen;
A visual trick.
A full life; contextualised
instantly.
For something we cannot touch,
its value is staggering.
It is no longer a question of want,
It is a forced performance,
An act of forlorn approval
For who we cannot please.

We belittle ourselves.
Take a back seat; fuck the document.

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