More Poker

Plastic ideas surround me.
Dream them in, throw them out.
Music is my only escape
from fake people, pretend eyes.
This earth throbs so fast, children forgotten.
Pending disasters stare me down
and my feet cannot escape it.

No maid can clean it.
No poet can capture it.
No baby can cry it.

The pain, the superficial coating.
No diversion.
It surrounds me.
I am suffocated
by the requirements
of a breakable world.