My wasteland
is lush.

Full of bread and honey
for other peoples mouths.

More excess, more money
More goods, more foods,
Delectable and detailed. Quick and gourmand.
Every whim a diverse market can meet.
I am starving.
Malnourished, my belly pokes up from beneath my designer shirt
My heart shriveled like the leg some fly is perched on
In some African country far away.
Once far, now wired.
Media and analysis,
Replication blooming from every branch.
The real thing, that soul that kind pained face
Is so vaguely out of reach.

I nourished myself on promise all these years
Old while young
Experience not deserved or lived.
Merely simulated and forecast.
The moon is huge and glowing orange light
The air is warm and crickets chirp
But I barely notice. My keyboard is too loud.
My deliverables
My victories
My co-marketing
My cpm
My appearance of saviour
I cannot hide my unhappiness.
I am being throttled by my own arm.

The poverty of my affluence is shameful.
How can I afford to live?

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