Fred Aiken Writing

i keep scrolling through 
an endless webpage of information
that i don’t need to consume,
but do need to consume,
or i don’t know if i should consume or not,
but it’s there, and i’m here, so…
might as well, i suppose,
and my eyes pop out of their socket,
blood-shot, tired, unable to comprehend
why my mind can’t shut itself off,
reboot and restart,
i  have no fuel left,
and i’m confusing profundity for consumption,
as i sway into the midnight bliss
that wars against itself until there’s nothing left
but the barren wasteland of a mind cannibalizing
its own thoughts and putting them on display 
for all, or none, to gawk and point,
maybe even laugh