Close the book, break into a sweat,
hands a dance, words appear.
A soul is gripped, gripped by the blur,
of necrotising text, you flesh out and
damn.
You could be in Rapture, fighting Splicers,
or in the middle of the east, where mad
and militant men dwell, shooting them
full of holes, showing the flaws in their
holy wars.
She speaks, and snakes her way through
cortexes, whispering words, suggesting
this or even that, a force that comes every
year, she even shuns you if you fall.
You could be on youtube, checking out
the latest vid, listening to pandora, or
even LastFM, doesn't matter, don't care,
she won't rule your life.
Her sinister secrets ride the incessant pitch,
of keys a-typing, imagination blurring, chapters,
and lines combining and twisting, driving the mind,
driving the state.
You could on a MMO, whether it's WoW or
many many more, not like you care, not like
it matters, you must escape, avoid the plight,
her poision and cynanide quill you lick, with
letter you hit.
All of this you wish and more,
but strung to your chair, watching
the glare, blinking and sighing as now know,
trapped by that undefinable mistress, for
a month, and you can only scream.
I'm so not doing this next year!
