Poetry from Sheryl Bize-Boutte | SYNCHRONIZED CHAOS

LEFT TO HIS OWN DEVICES

The lawnmower, the blender, the VCR,
The radio, the camera, the engine in the car,
A mechanical attention,
Would take him far
Spirited away by the reel-to-reel hum
Introverted they said, crazy said some
Fever passed on from father to son
She lied to him when she said he was the best
And after she never answered his text
The IPOD, the IPAD, the laptop keys
All interest lost in the birds and the bees
The room, the space, the secret stash,
Parents short on love provide plenty of cash
No friends, no prospects, riding the mist
A new world to inhabit became his wish
Real flesh, real life, is just too hard
No benefits discovered
In dropping his guard
With no competition for his number of wins
Fantasy is reality yet again
Screen words declare him the ultimate of all
Inside he can make many more fall
With nothing else to do 
On this side of the frame
They will all find it easy
To remember
His name
Eyes closed
Racked it once
And entered the game