CAZine

Upon his chest,
Where they spit,
Within the crowd,
His tongue he hid.
Pen ink drip,
Pen ink proud,
Upon the page,
His teeth endowed.

Behind the screen,
Where he now sits,
An angered kid,
With his lip bit.
On the keyboard,
Fingers race,
Divulging secrets,
No show of face.

Digital play,
From head to screen,
Rushing on like,
It’s sweet caffeine.
Something tangible,
Maybe not clean,
A calculating,
Mind machine.

But can he feel it,
In his wrist,
Those bolts of fear,
And mindless bliss?
A muzzle imbeds,
And fits his lips,
Can he see the poison,
In the pen ink’s grip?

No, he keeps that mask,
And wears it well,
A coat to finally,
Crack his shell…
Inside his chest,
A heart encased,
By pain to power,
From a face of fake.