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?

The best words
and lines
and moments
I cannot use

they are too personal
precious
private
to ever be heard
seen
by anyone


but me

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 naked 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.