B.O.T.

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How much of your mind has lined pockets with green?
The amount must be obscene.
How many times can you rewatch this movie,
but still rush to catch “the best” scene?
Without a blink,
nostalgia’s the first thing we think.
A runaround game—
yet the players don’t move;
they just foam at every frame.
Pondering and lounging,
but acting insane,
expecting differently
while repeating the same.
And your skin?
Akin to black-and-white static,
crawling without some “Love on the Brain.”
So many emotions battle against the eyes—
of a witness from a distance
and the front row of first-to-buy.
Eyes on schedule to behold an “aesthetic,”
unlimited ticketing from TV to app,
riding a train of thought to destination: pathetic.
Miss out on a rerun.
I mean, God forbid any real fun.
It’s holier in a dead zone,
where devices dare not speak or pun.