another wasted night:
there is nothing but remorse.
I forget. Ignore. The urge reborn
and I wander those well-worn sites.
I look at myself to see if I mourn
and there is nothing, some perversion born
as I see my face in the laptop lights.
There is nothing. No remorse.
And then it’s over and I am filled with scorn
that this is what I like.
I look at myself to see if I mourn,
but, satisfied brain, I am torn
between the bytes of the screen and me, unclean. It bites.
There is nothing but remorse.
There is nothing. I am Porn
and I watch those well-worn sights.
I look at myself to see if I mourn.
There is nothing.