IRC

The liquid shadows from rain on the glass
dance on my desk as I stare straight ahead.
My face is lit up by cold and harsh light.
My wrist has grown sore; my eyelids are like lead.

And this blank face looks for reasons to smile,
And finds that this transforms the meek.
Advice and solace are freely doled out,
Whereas really they would be so afraid to speak.

Behind the glass and wire blockade,
They all feel free from rejection and fear.
The rhythm of keys clicking soothes their souls,
And time can be taken to make statements clear.

We all hunger for contact, for someone to hold,
Someone to say that they care at all.
So pulling myself away from this place,
I look out my window and watch the rain fall.