Staring at the clock, it mocks my plight.
Five minutes left, or so it claims,
But time has turned to molasses;
Every tick a tiny giggle,
As my coffee grows cold, and
My chair re-forms to my shape.
It’s then that I ponder
The deeper questions,
Like if I can train my stapler to fetch,
Or if the printer is secretly plotting against me?
Words, & Illustrations (c)BobChristian
There’s a demon
Inside my head.
I see him, hiding
In a dark corner
Of my mind.
Lurking, his blood
Red eyes, he’s hungry;
Waiting to be fed.
Once again, slowly
Stalking me.
Desperate, hungry.
Feeding off the pitch
Black darkness, pain
I’ve got hidden deep
Within me.
Consuming every last
Bit of light within me,
Until he wins, and I’m
Completely lost to my
Demons.
The greatest trick this devil ever pulled
wasn’t smoke, wasn’t mirrors—
it was the algorithm.
It was teaching you to doubt your own pulse.
Convincing you the fire alarm is just
background noise.
Convincing you the cage is a corner office
with a flattering filter.
Perception becomes policy.
Policy becomes posture.
Posture becomes prayer.
And suddenly
up is a rumor,
down is a conspiracy,
and truth is a freelance contractor
waiting on late payment.
We scroll past the smoke.
We double-tap the collapse.
We outsource our outrage
to a headline written in disappearing ink.
No one stops to ask
why the air tastes metallic.
No one wants to inventory
an unpleasant existence—
it’s easier to binge another distraction,
another blue-lit anesthesia
dripping from the ceiling of the feed.
Facts grow thinner.
So thin they’re transparent.
So transparent they pass through bone
without resistance.
You blink—
and the blink is curated.
You blink—
and the world has been gently rearranged
like furniture in a house you swear you know.
They call it perspective.
They call it balance.
They call it both sides.
But it feels like standing in a funhouse
where every mirror insists
you are the distortion.
And somewhere, softly—
almost kindly—
a voice says:
Don’t think too hard.
Don’t look too long.
This is normal.
This is fine.
This is freedom.
We repeat it
because repetition feels like stability.
We repeat it
until the echo sounds like evidence.
So tell me—
When the ground shifts
and the headlines applaud,
when the lie wears a flag
and the truth wears fatigue,
is it all fake news—
or did we just forget
how to see?
(c)BobChristianpoetry
Misplaced. Stashed. A collection
There’s a use for everything here –
Lost but never forgotten.
It’s here somewhere, Amongst
Ceiling-high papers, seemingly
Empty boxes, or In a cupboard.
Searching room by room, almost
Drowning in a labyrinth of memories.
It’s here somewhere, I know it is.
I can’t dispose of it, I might
Need it one day. Until then it
Sits with the rest, gathering dust.
Memories, heartache, evidence of
Past mistakes stack up Hoarding
Emotions, never letting go of pain.
No longer needed, still I’m unable
to discard them. Until they’re too much –
Crashing over, pulling me under.
It started way back in high school. A break
up, losing a loved one. I
Kept them all, not wanting to lose anything.
Ever again, no matter what, how ever
Much it hurt. But it’s time let go now. To Spring
Clean – declutter, before it’s too late.
(C) BobChristianpoetry
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 