I stride to the podium tears streak from my sapphire eyes mascara spotted the skirt of my angelic white dress
I take a trembling breathe it seems as though the world falls silent
In that moment waiting for each sweet succulent word to fall from my lips
I clear my throats my trembling voice filling the room
“I would just like to say a few words” I admit scrolling through my phone where my speech was
I take another shaky breath “one on one communication is dead! We
all know that it is dead because we let our phones computers iPads etc etc run our lives control us like marionettes tugging at our strings we want technology to remember birthdays for us we want it to wake us up we relinquished all control to the technology and the marketing companies behind them I look at this great big world I live in and I wonder what happened to the sweet gesture of a handwritten note?” I chuckle grimly “I do not believe that human to human contact will ever be brought back from the dead but mayhaps it can it doesn't need to be like this we can have control again” I throw my phone to the red carpet stepping on the screen “may human contact rise from its dead state!” I exclaim walking off into the dead of night awaiting for the people of the world to make their decision

A/n; the prompt for this was write  a eulogy about an abstract concept that you believe is dead and I wrote this it is aweful

I pucker my lips as the feed transfers me into my virtual reality dream,
It feels as if I were stuck in a never ending trance of disturbance.
By the snap of my stubby pale fingers I could be floating in deep outerspace during spring break,
The "Feed" I feel implanted into my brain,
As each day comes to a pass a part of my cerebrum becomes controlled by technology.
Conversing with classmates becomes a more difficult process,
I feel as if the feed erases my memories storing the memories into their databases,
I no longer remember my name nor do I know who I am,
Feed butchered my mind,
Feed murdered the little girl I once was...
-E.J.W

He liked to use
clip-on promises
because it was so much
easier
than learning to tie knots
and facing down the
fear
that you could strangle yourself
if you weren't careful

Some fool once
suggested
that I start to
carry around a
little notebook
to write my poetry
in whenever
inspiration strikes.

I'd rather not live like
a
caricature
all scribbling melodrama
in the corner of darkened
bars and seemingly
unable to work out the mystery
of women
and exuding an infinite
aura of depth
to draw
the eyes of strangers on
a passenger train
as I ride from mystery
to mystery

the fact of the matter is that
there are
no ******* trains
in this town and
there are no picturesque
vistas with which to fall in
love
but rather an endless
array of fast-food
joints
and thinly disguised
bigotry
and the neon red, white and blue
gets nauseating after a while

truth be told
I had a notebook
once
and a stranger came up
to me and asked me what
I was writing
and I said "poetry"
and he laughed
and sneered
and said
"oh, SOMEBODY is getting cultured!"
and I learned at that point
that more often than not
"nothing" is a good answer
for strangers and that
my poetry is better kept
in my head until it is time
to type it all out
because writing poetry is not
a spectator sport for me

my poetry is a *****
little secret between
myself
and the few who care and
my thoughts are not a persona
I am not a performer for strangers
in an endless act of
"more cultured than thou"
I write for me
and
notebook or no

I am a god ****** poet.

Sometimes, when the air gets too cold between my lips,
I bury them into the palms of my hands.
And sometimes when I forget I am not alone,
I begin to let go and let go and let go.
My body begins to echo across the rocky walls of my world.
Bashing and clashing back and forth. A blodied body begging for more, no safe word in this unkept, ruthless condition I have brought upon myself. I lay here on stone, on rocks shaped like shark fins breaking through skin.
I begin to end.

I'm memorized by the echo
                         of your passing,
burning so brightly before
            you were extinguished.

We all have a moment to burn,
                      before we extinguish.
But were always brightest before we fade.

Nevertheless we have a singular moment
                        to burn for those
                 that need us before we fade gently.

Were all stars fading,
             but some keep us burning longer
just because of there words.

               Where here because of them,
even though they have faded.
              They still illuminate us brightly.