I’m just his weekly news,
That he preaches to,
Knowing a new top story was on its way,
You gave my heart no substance, just a ‘we’re going to a break’ cue.
What an illusion.
Some would say its the part where the weatherman was always wrong.
It rained today while your presence still causes my smiles.
Yet and still,
I must not meet your standards.
The puppet in me has geppettoed,
as if were watching sesame street instead of the 10:00 news.
I feel molded.
The illustration is beautified but perpetually disastrous in every way.
This insanely needs reprimanded,
like a government shutdown.
You have set this trap designed especially for me,
and I took the fall and you just left me be.
This muthafucker doesn’t have any love for me.
This news report has discernment written all over it.
The dew point of this fog is overcast, so why do we bring sand to the beach?
As you present your wry comments like a leech,
I’m left with the malfunction of this teleprompter.
And as I take an elongated sigh to the moon,
I realize this segment will soon be obsolete to you,
as I am stuck on the memory of our tragedy as being past breaking news.