This rose on my desk is falling apart.
I woke up to petals strewn across my floor
and the air smells fresh
of floral death.

It was in full bloom before I cut it.
The prime of its life.
huge and pink.
adored.

I needed it
in my room.

now I want it
in the trash.

-r0

insidious newsfeed.
apathetic "like"  
(I guess they're getting married.)
assessing my worth
'friend' counts and Klout scores.
modify your post to be pleasant,
as to 'dislike' something
deems it unworthy of notice.

"Just got arrested, #lol-- free breakfast."
We are becoming a collective
of aging selfies and
isolated narcissists.

dissociative culture.
I am desensitized to my own
most precious moments
and have condensed their value
into how many people
care enough to click a button.

blending into the numbers
we are in the back seat of our own lives
and our weekly web-content
is drunk behind the wheel.

You don't need a machine
or the internet
to tell you
you're anything less
than beautiful
and a star,
inside and
out.

-r0

structure

the beat the rhythm the cadence the time
the voice the sound the statement the rhyme

the pen the pad the ink and words
the now the then the sync deferred

the verse the tale the dream the style
to win to fail the scheme compiled

to speak to say to write and draft
from night to day to cry and laugh

from blood to ink and bone to pen
to love to think and grow again.


-r0