Twisted Mannequins

Run in circles falling, faking, taking pictures 
Of a sunset reflecting broken glass on the pavement. 
And you grabbed my arm and pulled me to a room 
Where the time doesn't matter. 
It's just you and me, a couple of twisted mannequins 
Looking for a thrill, a real feeling. 
We touch in the dark and we know what we are 
And what we hide. 
We're no different from the faces on the TV, 
The glowing box in the corner that we draped a sheet over. 
The plants we try to grow are dying in the vase, 
and we're burning out our wound to kill the chattering tumor. 
It's a little ornamental.

Chester Rocksford's questions:

Does this poem mean anything to anyone?

Also, am I going too nuts with the poetic license?