a television rest on your shoulders,
where your head should be,
it spouts all of this information dressed up as facts.
an oreo stuffed with words, begging me to buy.
there is a siren's song coming out of your ears.
i can't help but want to get closer to it.
feel the static of your new face on my fingers.
sparks fly and i'm on cloud nine,
televised isolation blooms.
during this tell-all-time of reportive conclusions,
we leave all ends loose and all beginnings solid.
the only fact checking that is happening is if i'll agree.
the only information being communicated
is the fast kind, the kind that will leave.