Fiction Addiction

I'm full of stories that aren't mine

And every night I go out of line

Consuming them without single pause...

Oh, sweet illusions, oh, deep remorse.

I talk and I love and I come to life

Through screens and their light and old black on white.

So filled to the brim with feelings not real,

It seems any second they'll tumble and spill.

And I'm not aware

That small sneaky pieces of loved heroines

Attaches themselves to my sense of self,

And bits of dialogue not quite authentic

Escapes my lips though I try to prevent it.

There are no more days, just a faraway blur,

In my free time from fiction I flounder and slur.

Deeply immersed in another yet tale

I do not notice...

My life has gone stale.

I forgot what it feels to feel spacious inside,

Only vaguely remember a bright state of mind.

And I plunge even deeper into my relapse,

So as not to see gaps and through them my collapse.

But oh how I miss it.

It's been ages since my eyes were twinkly, You said.

Now I'm tired and old and my eyelids feel wrinkly...

Tommorow,

Tommorow,

Tommorow

And yet -

With hair dreary

Vision bleary

One last time

I

need

to get

A quick fix of fantasy, drama and wit...

It's just one more line, after that I will

Quit.