When I was sixteen
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
This made perfect sense for I sought seclusion
From fright in my mind; I was hunting a delusion.
What was wrong and what was right
Could never be far or near or protected with might.

When I was seventeen
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
This made perfect sense for I hated my mind.
Suffocating in a body howling with mistakes scared and lined.
Escape was hollow and deprivation
When a cold numb murdered little sensation.

When I was eighteen
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
Laughter and warmth within and around,
Let us take a photo to capture what was lost and found.
Often I will reminisce about the night it all made sense
But I cannot remember it all, let loathing commence.

When I was nineteen,
I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
Now, I did not understand
For I could feel and touch and fall and land
Without sorrow or destruction at what I could not achieve.
Everything that happened, I knew now it was time to leave.

I am twenty six now,
And I remember when I was told I was a ghost in the machine.
Digital memory captured it all
And a scroll reveals the forgotten, the joy and the fall.
I didn’t realise at the time we place our spirits into devices so lean.

So let me tell you;
Guess what?
We are now all just a great ghost
in a pocket machine.

My friend is my mobile device, Apple is my brand
Where I can see the world in the palm of my hand.

It goes where I go.
It is my cargo.

I Twitter if I need news.
I periscope if I get the blues.

To find great pictures I use Instagram.
Whatever you do don't send me spam.

And on snap chat please like comment and share
you can do something risque if you dare.

Oh and don't forget to follow friend and subscribe.
But for you I will not circumscribe.

I have no time for verbal conversation
I must check my Facebook notifications.

everyone loves me on all of my channels.
I could teach every one how to ride a camel.

And when I'm hungry I check out Yelp and Foursquare.
So I can find only the best restaurants I swear.

I have the menu before I arrive.
I see so many people who are deprived.

No one can argue their point with me.
Because I will google it Bing it or Yahoo all three.

If you make a post on Facebook don't make me catch you in a lie.
I will check Snopes, Hoaxes and Truth or fiction I'm not shy.

I am a very old man
Living inside a plan
Of that great Creator
To create immortals
But I live in a body
That is very young
And very enthused

What is maintenance? My life has to be cold,
planned, full of calculation. Otherwise, what?
Otherwise, I'll be old at thirty-five, bold, but too close

to a tragic slip, toes in the grass by open graves,
when peers gather, grow on pavement past the gates.
My life has to be cold, planned, full of calculation.

Otherwise, the most vital, underlying systems
yell in warning lights, compromised. You may
not think it problematic, but I can't interpret
signs of my demise already six feet down,

now can I? That's why I (we): clean, sort,
scrub, update outdated thoughts, as if
otherwise, I (we) cut the years I'll (we'll)
survive.

Open my chest for me, you,
lovely human you. Your
scent rises through the rain.
Could I live the way you live,
I would. But I can't, and I know that.
So let me react to your input,

open my chest for me
open my chest for me

open my chest for me
open me