We blindly type out of memorization,
We blindly write from practiced habit,
We blindly skip paragraphs, ignore articles, and pensively print upon the line without realization of what we’re saying at all.
We never truly see,
We deteriorate out of muscle memory
Absently offering an embrace neglecting to fully eyes-closed experience the wonderfulenss of it at all.
We go through the motions,
Dwelling in our minds straining its relation to our souls,
We no longer act in love,
But the muscle memory of it.
We look, but don’t truthfully see,
We touch, but forget to truly feel,
We hear, but we no longer listen,
We have flesh, yet we are merely programmed.
Advanced, but empty,
Knowledge unimaginable, yet still lacking,
Right, left, up, down, but do we realize the palpability and tenderness of the action?
Or are we too much on automatic?
In over drive,
That we forget to live out the littlest things and realize them to the fullest