My Poetry. Couch Potato

Home from work, the kettle is on,
Time to relax, put your best frown upon.
That square of light offers sweet, cheap escape,
To watch a grown man fly in a ridiculous red cape.
He saves the world, chases the ridiculously bad—
Wait, is that the neighbor's kid? No, it's her Dad!

Laughter, tears, and fictional emotion,
Drowning reality in a whimsical, silly notion.
Soaps, reality dramas, and action movies too,
Glued to the glowing box—no time for the loo!
Will he live? Does she die?
Is that a hero?
No, it's a fly!

Kidnapped by aliens, fighting a truly pointless war,
What is the purpose of all this, who is it for?
You're happily stuck in this world of frantic, fake array,
With overacting humans and models made of clay.
This is your kingdom, no one dare enter;
The sofa, this room, is your entire worldly center.

No sensible means to an end, it just goes on and on,
From the very start of the evening's fun,
Until the channel's little dot has gone.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025