Black Ops

March 22, 2011
Don’t ask me why I’m writing this,
I admit I’m rather ashamed.
Boys are usually my poetic muse,
but today it’s just a game.
I fail to see the romance
between the controller and the screen.
It transforms even the best of men
into someone embarrassing and obscene.
Violent explosions shake the ground;
wide, mesmerized eyes.
Hours, days and even years
wasted of their lives.
They have their own cute language;
it sounds like gibberish to me.
And if you ask ‘most any girl,
I’m sure that they’ll agree.
Boys, I’m sorry for the sander,
My friend sent me on a quest
to write about his one true love
(and the only one he’ll get).
So, Black Ops, this one’s for you –
you’ve stolen our young men’s pride.
The day that you were released
a small part of me died.

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