One last step
Through the forest before the trees are cut down.

One last flight into space
Before the the satellites keep us in.

One last read
Before the library cuts the sentence by toll.

One last champion
Before his logos show.

One last man.
Before he places the devil around his neck.

One last word.
Before they charge me for every other after.

Freedom doesn't have "a last".
Freedom is lasting.

Here we are again. A place I’m all too familiar with. My bedroom. Late at night. I’m sitting here upset at something I saw on the Internet again. Or something someone said again. Here I am laying in my own sadness and depression, laying here in my own disappointment. Why is it like this every single ******* time?

I lay here and just try to fall asleep, but instead I want to fall off a cliff. But instead, I try to fall into a song. I fall face first into some deep-**** lyrics, and heart first into a melody that can move tears down cheeks and mountains both at the same time. I keep hoping that the music will take me away from here. Take me away from this information that makes me want to scream and shout and cry and ***** all at the same time in some weird, guttural image that would put Picasso out on street corners begging for eyes to gaze upon his art. But is it too much to beg for eyes to gaze upon a heart?

Maybe my heart is just lonely and needs attention. I’ve never been sure if I give it enough myself. But there’s only so much one person can do for something until it needs a second pair of eyes, a second pair of hands, a second opinion, a second dose of love. Maybe my twin size bed is keeping that second pair of eyes, that second dose of love from having any room to squeeze into my heart. Or maybe I’ve just never been good at sharing. I always eat more cookies then I should. I want the whole pizza to myself. And don’t even get me started on music selection.

I’m rambling again, but I think I’m just distracting myself from what I saw again. Or what I heard again. I’m trying to distract my mind because it doesn’t know how to process what it’s just seen, what it’s just heard.  I don’t know how to cope with being let down. I don’t know why, because I’ve been let down so much you think I’d have chosen a final resting place by now.

It’s too dark in here to see what I can do about this. So, I just do what I always do. After listening to my music, pity *******, and crying trying not to be heard, I lay down and try to rest.

Maybe I’ll fall asleep, and in the morning, it’ll all be better.

Or maybe I’ll fall asleep, and in the morning, it’ll all be over.

I’m not sure which thought is gonna help me get to sleep.

Hidden information
Stuck in my head

I do not get it out because the chaos takes the lead.
Get a half understanding and a laugh to please
I want to give you whole but I don't know what that means.

too many souls
live life like
it's a test
always rushing
to absorb the
i n f o r m a t i o n
nothing is
in  f o r m a t i o n.

I was officially born in the 17th century.
My homeland was England.
My parents were many.
They conceived me in coffeehouses.

I was officially born in the 17th century,
When the crowns of Scotland and England united,
When James VI, King of Scots,
Ascended to the throne of England as James I;
When civil wars between roundheads and cavaliers
Ended in Parliamentary victory,
At the Battle of Worcester.

I was officially born in the 17th century,
At the time of Interregnum,
Commonwealths, Glorious Revolution,
William and Mary
and the English Bill of Rights.
Reformation and proliferation of literacy:
People learnt to read the Bible,
Then chose to be curious and explore,
Secular literature and novels
In circulating libraries.

My parents were many.
They conceived me in coffeehouses,
Scattered around the city,
Spread throughout the country,
And finally reached abroad:
Another Revolution,
on the other side of the Channel.

My parents were many.
They met at intellectual bacchanalia,
In reading societies and clubs,
‘Cause that’s where news was communicated.
Freely criticizing politics and governments,
They engaged in conversations
in an environment of confrontation,
Social status set aside,
To listen, exchange, formulate,
Understand and comprehend.

Another William called me ‘mistress of success’,
Blaise thought I was ‘the queen of the world’.
Being well informed and debate in social networks
Was a duty, before being a right,
As my parents’ opinion would guide the rulers,
Ideally in the interest not of few, not of many,
but of all.

First heeded by governments,
They quickly learnt to manipulate me,
They muzzled me and domesticated me,
Taking away my freedom and relevance,
With the unofficial excuse by which
My parents were too ignorant
to even have a voice.

Now those coffeehouses have changed their shape,
Intangible, virtual, ethereal,
New spaces for new parents
To develop ideas, opinions,
And exchange;
Not currencies or stocks
but information and views.

I am my parents’ voice,
My name is Public Opinion.

Once upon a time
You were important.
Once upon a time
They were inquisitive.
They listened.
They asked.

They were fascinated and marvelled
By your stories of the past,
Neglected by fault of ignorance
Sought for through awe-inspiring curiosity.

They believed you possessed
Wisdom and experience,
Knowledge of the otherwise
Unknown.
They gathered around you,
Or perhaps beside you
And in front of a fire
Begging you to speak
Drooling over your words.

You were their entertainment
Like pirates, they wanted you to hand over
Your treasures
Like sharks, they devoured your essence
Like vessels, they slowly disappeared
Surfing away on a web
You never saw, barely know
Or comprehend.

Your services are no longer required
They found a new friend
They call Google,
One followed by a hundred zeros.
You cannot bit that
You do not stand a chance.

Here is where the story gets better
They invented rules for words
The code is political correctness.
It obliges them to pretend,
To respect you
By continuously finding
New flattering definitions for you.
By now, you are not even “old” anymore
You have lost the right to
Your lifetime achievements award.
You are just “older” than someone else is.

“Older” enough to retire
With honours.
They have finally decided
To acknowledge
Your inevitable infirmity.
They are offering you a new perspective
Awarding you with a one-way ticket
Free ride
To your beautiful new home,
So that you can rest.
A well-deserved rest.

You are simply démodé.
The stories you carry
Are of no interest anymore.
Memories are written
Tombstones too.
They are gazing at the future
Drooling over the fantastic
Possibilities.
The book they are reading,
You are not in.

Treasures of the eldest
Buried at sea
Rest assure you will be retrieved,
When a pressing sense of bleakness
Accompanied by devastating guilt,
Will bring them back to you
Compelling them to ask once again
“Please tell us stories of the past”.