he never considered himself a writer or poet or scribe

always felt his words to be wasted compared to others

especially hers

a gifted beauty with a silver tongue

but others saw him as a binary bard

wandering the ones and zeros that comprised his world

he gave his paltry soul to the aether

spitting out ballads of pain and sorrow with rapidly tapping thumbs

this digital dreamscape his escape from a life he so desperately hates

as much a ghost in the machine as in reality

cursed with charisma and depression he stands out in the shadows he hides in

after a long stay ignoring the words in less than a year he has written eight hundred odes

mostly to her

his unknowing muse

at times metaphorical and for brief stretches real until she

like all the others

tires of his dreams and seeks greener pastures elsewhere

this just adds more fuel to the flames of his verbal dysentery

he has loved

three times fully

and countless others in a more ancillary fashion

prone to giving his every last piece

in hopes she finds it worthy

that she may fill his world with her ethereal majesty

and focus his song with undercurrent of hers

but dreams

even digital ones

tend to not come true

no matter the purity of heart of the dreamer

and his is stained and tainted with impurity

a sad little dessicated thing

like him

prone to sputters and misfires

and aching with a dull throb

this pitiful lost soul

the binary bard

alone in a digital kingdom of ones and zeros

spitting barbs

dripping of sarcastic remorse

wondering why he is always alone