In our sterilized world
condensed selves peek out
Behind our blinding white back lit screens
desperate to draw out blood across the page
If anyone cuts, they'll leave the blood at home
To format conviction from insubstantial photos
Emotionless
every 19 out of 20 are all just pics of color drained of all but the shallowest
human experience
Dying to be loved
Seen
Hardly hoping to be understood
Cutting off all hope
as we cut off all our enemies
And cage ourselves in an impotent haven
No love can sprout, grow, and blossom
Hanging in mid-air
Amidst the talk of pointless pasts and puns
No,
Life
Love
Is Wrought in all the nastiness of Dirt
As earth's pushing pulls the golden threads
up out of all the worthy hearts
And stitches us together with all her lovely arts
It's Face to Face
And pain to pain
Where love indeed does truly start
Pondering the phenomenon of how shared struggles breeds understanding, sympathy, admiration, and love, and how little such occurs online
