Genuine Knockoffs

Every fucking day. You write something. Talk to yourself. Thinking you're actually listening. You make your little sites. CSS running amok. Tin foil tigers on plastic dishes. Not sticking. Layers. So many layers floating against the margins. Pretending they know how deep the page is. When you look away. Or resize the instrument. Cold letters stripped of their alphabet. Just words now. Fishing for bait.

Empty hooks.

The color of your lens. The length of your flash. All the things that take the pictures not set. Still waiting to learn what sort of image you wish for them to create.

Solid like you thought you wanted. But was so heavy.

Or empty. Like it really is. Slung over your shoulder like a fake prada handbag. Just to make you look like you are trying.

The drugs pulling your hair back so they can see your face.