It was only after the storm locked me in that
I could sit with myself
Counting the pulse of the cursor on my screen.
Your impressive vocabulary (a marriage of therapyspeak
And the memefication of everything)
Was charming at first, predictable next, tiring in the end.
I could have told you everything I felt 
(Disconnect and other words with the same prefix)
But I shushed my gut into silence
And my heart into believing
That the big man with a small wobbly head
Must have a big heart with a small ego.
How many times do we make ourselves think into feeling?
It's an age-old recipe to make life appealing, when
Each day is no more exciting than the regular tick of a clock.
Now I am left with a small heap of regrets
But a large scoop of relief.
There's a sweet kind of peace in knowing what isn't,
And I can come back to these lines when I am lost once more
In the everyday horrors of anyone's life.