It's too early
for this
there's a kid
whose subwoofers
that keep shaking
the trunk of his '04
Honda Civic
providing a tribal
staccato
a background
trance
to keep me
motivated
as I use a
screwdriver
to pop the latch on my
door for the
third time
this week
because I accidentally
ripped the
door handle off
and
I realize that I
forgot
my coffee on the counter at
home
and I forgot to tell
my cats that I love
them
before I left
and this is
all being obscured
by the threat of
sleep in this parking
lot
because I can never
seem to get to bed
early enough

When a tweet, no longer comes from a bird.
A message, no longer written in words.
A picture, determines your current worth.
A swipe, is not for payments against earns.

Your world, no longer restricted to earth.
Your voice, can control your universe.
Games, without company, a box.
Books, used to be written, forgot.

Love was in letters, not characters.
Eyes looked straight, not down.
Communication, in touch were sound.
Reactions, were not button frowns.

Food shared, not delivered.
Noise surrounded, not muted.
Hands shaken, not email awaken.
The world was claimed, but not hidden.

An automated world,
not an automated me.

I have stopped waiting for you.

I have stopped nurturing the hope that you will someday change your mind.

I've stopped waiting for someday.

Because you've always had today and keep throwing it away.

When I look up at the stars, I see you.
And it hurts.
They seem so far away,
Thousands of light years,
Millions of miles.
Untouchable.
They shine so bright,
Perfect and golden,
Burning and eternal.
Beautiful.
But only from a distance-
How are they up close?
Fading and falling?
Imperfect?
I can’t tell what I love;
Whether I love them
Or their glow from afar.
Removed.
When I look up at the stars, I see you.
And it hurts.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of ****** lace and glitt'ring arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To fight and fall in foreign lands.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravaged plains,
And burning towns and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widow's tears, and orphans moans,
And all that Misery's hand bestows,
To fill a catalogue of woes.


John Scott (1730-1783)

it's so boring sharing our lives
on the internet...
that it almost borders on
having to think up a menu.