busy pitter patters
of feet, at least
pretending
to be busy
these humans,
these flesh sacks,
place their bags
laptops
their unconsciousness
on this barnes & noble’s
coffee tables
whose chairs aren’t comfortable
yet, here they sit, beside me
amongst me
and an old
ancient, it seems now,
version of me would’ve cursed them
silently
while pretending to associate
to relate
to give a ****
for doing so,
for raising my anxiety,
for reflecting what i truly was,
at least
pretending
to identify with that narrow
window of my self
some collide
physically,
cosmically,
spiritually,
intuitively, whatever the hell you brand it
we all seek
connection,
always elsewhere,
never with our miserable
anxious selves
and if we can’t connect
we, at least
pretend
to do so
much like our riddling iphones
desperate for battery
for a sort of
charge
for life
elsewhere
somewhere else
anywhere
else rather than within
to be alone, amongst the crowds,
without our phones, our books,
our lovers, our seven dollar coffees,
our ******* egg white breakfast sanwhiches
almost as if these things
are essential to the unsavory
cravings and desires, or
dare i say
ourselves
we pretend
to work, to live
we read, without reading
we speak, without thinking,
we speak, without speaking,
“to be, or not to be.”
we don’t care for
intention
anymore
how could we?
we’re just so
un-*******-phadomably
busy
doing
nothing,
at all
just,
pretending.
-melanholicreator
people pretend.
