Social media companies Swear it's you they want to please They badly want for you to see That they value privacy And that there are several strictures On who can see your posts and pictures.
You think your profile is secure You're satisfied until you hear That they sell your information To advertising corporations.
Every post that you've spent time on pictures, videos you had your eye on They save it all for using later And say "It's ONLY metadata!"
They as good as have a list Of content that you can't resist And knowing full well what you like With custom ads they duly strike! They desperately want you to keep scrolling So they can see the money roll in. And their ethics will be forfeited So advertisers can be profited.
If I saw a man casually walking down the street I most likely wouldn’t consider his wants and needs He probably doesn’t want to be bothered by a stranger anyway But if he were visibly dying; bleeding, maimed, mortally wounded I would feel inclined to help him And he’d probably be grateful for my gesture So when do I stop leaving him alone And start helping him? Where is the line between Someone in need of help And someone in need of privacy?
I used to think the line was physical trauma It makes sense to try to help someone if they’re bleeding But then I considered how painful emotional trauma can be Then I thought everyone always needed help no matter what But that seems like a platitude I can’t help everyone all the time Especially because people need to develop trust in me In order to even want to receive my help
Maybe he’s bleeding Because he’s believing The end of his breathing Will ultimately be relieving Or maybe he’s maimed With an attention aim Of getting my name Into his game
My dramatic yet pragmatic fear Of my heart getting speared Makes me stave off peers Yet I crave them to be near So which way do I steer?
This man on the street Should I wash his feet? Give him food to eat? Pretend he’s a blank sheet That can’t speak? Is putting him on the shelf A form of giving him help? Or am I just worrying about myself? Because deep down privately I want to give him privacy To avoid the possible piracy His violent virus breeds
Does he want my company Or is he actually hunting me? I can’t tell at first glance Giving me the worst chance He’ll reject my cursed dance With an arcane church stance Or a negative mentality Or a lack of personality I can’t fathom the totality Of all the possible modalities That’ll lead to my fatality So why should I even try? Should I just let him die?
Best expressed in a word for the listening, "****." People are *****, can and will be, both. A ****. Is such an intrusive thing, proposed to bore holes and fill bored holes with ease. People are *****, can and will be, both. ***** infiltrate. ***** find space. ***** will push sometimes when you push them away. ***** will push sometimes when you give them a, "No."
Four walls; a pair of cupped hands. Jaundiced like an open eye; an open cove Prescribing solitude to those whom solitude cannot withstand, And I choose this cold corner which is furthest from the door, To be where I am not, before Your proclivities become my own, I write. I write, My window holds my breath and frosts the world, The moon in his amber gown, dressed in chatoyance and spite, Godspeed; dark, dark shroud for ***** skies! Six floors, walls, doors from you am I.
I couldn't write when the sun peered in, Her inquiry evangelizing the specks of time left upon the glass - I've heard it all before; God's shining face leaves none unloved (unseen) but his spotlight has no starlet; so who can see me up here? We can't see from windows, dear. I'd live and sing for the cloudless hall The nursery of misanthropists crawling on the grey cobblestone And the lilt of the wind on the rose; through squares nice and small - The peevish moth shudders at the sight of itself obscuring the day through the glass. It seems we're always in the way.