idea: the horror. the terror. the neverending onslaught of telemarketer calls. make it stop.

The phone hums, a low, insidious drone,
a prelude to a symphony of dread.
A voice, smooth as honey, yet cold as stone,
begins to weave a web around your head.

It promises solutions, a brighter day,
a comfort bought with a fleeting price.
But the promises fray, and slip away,
leaving a hollow ache, a bitter spice.

The hours bleed into a blurry haze,
a relentless tide of insistent pleas.
Each call a phantom, in a digital maze,
whispering doubts upon the chilling breeze.

The same script repeats, a worn-out line,
a hollow echo in the empty hall.
A desperate plea, a soul that’s intertwined
with the endless reach, about to fall.

The laughter fades, replaced by weary sighs,
a growing numbness, a numbing despair.
The world shrinks down to the caller’s lies,
a suffocating weight beyond compare.

You see the faces, pixelated and pale,
behind the screens, a vacant, hungry stare.
They feast on your hope, on your fragile tale,
and harvest the burden you’re forced to bear.

The days stretch on, a never-ending fight,
against the onslaught, the relentless call.
A silent scream lost in the fading light,
a soul consumed, about to fall.

And in the quiet, a single tear descends,
a testament to the endless, cruel sting.
A broken spirit, that never truly ends,
a silent lament the static rings.

Oh, to silence the hum, to break the chain,
to find a solace in the digital void.
To escape the echo, the agonizing pain,
and be free from the calls, forever enjoyed.