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Poetry

New Virtual Worlds

 

We're no longer artists,

Just content producers.

Our expression was robbed

In the instagram harvest,

 

Shit was heartless.

Creatives to consumers

With the push of a button.

We turned into viewers,

 

Became computers

Added question marks

To our own futures.

Trusting the rumours

 

Of digital bloomers.

Of those who say

Online is what's next

And claim to be industry movers.

 

We stepped into spaces

And tried to adapt,

Doing our best

To present our new faces,

 

Receiving embraces.

Chances untapped,

Until it all ended.

Saturated, collapsed.

 

Filled up with ads.

Divided opinions,

Polarized habitats

And made up new facts.

 

Made us relapse

Made us rethink

About ways in which

business transacts.

 

When we set out to be,

Art was physical.

We then changed the game,

Start selling NFTs',

 

Distancing our dreams.

Money turned cryptical,

New virtual worlds,

Forced as intrisical.

 

Prototypical,

Is what we've become.

Another statistic , All

Becoming encyclical.

 

 

Tom Fry

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Sitting

Procrastination devours the soul,

With days spent in hypothetical idling.

Fear licks the milk clean from the bowl,

Leaving little for which worth striving.

 

Loneliness owns all of us now;

Sometimes leaving yet always returning.

The darkness to which we must bow,

Computing, learning, always discerning.

 

Emptiness can refill, despite how vast.

When the darkness comes back,

Be sure you've eaten to last.

Tom Fry

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Burdens

 

The burdens of my heart came for me today.

 

Heavy chains alive like snakes,

Slithering past my defences.

Growing pains and mental breaks,

Engulfing all my senses.

 

They were stuck outside the door all night, trying to come in.

 

I heard them scream for my attention,

Using me as leverage.

Disarming suicide prevention,

In silence with the Devil's beverage,

 

I held ground and listened as they hissed from the other side.

 

Creatures who devoured the sun,

Coming for my scars.

Memories that made me run,

And put me behind bars.

 

I could only stay awake so long, fighting off the pressure.

 

I did what I could but fell and slept

Eventually I had to cave.

That's when they slalomed in and crept,

Binding me like a slave.

 

Now the black fog has consumed me.

 

The burning reminds me of therapy.

When I woke up I knew I had lost.

Pills I could be popping as remedy.

But sober fights come at a cost.

 

A dark angel tried to seduce me with them once.

 

But I chose to retain my emotions,

See the world for what it truly is:

Dying dreams and faded oceans

And a mind that is cruelly his.

 

Tom Fry

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