Your phone is my Camera on buses, in stores, on the streets,
Every step tracked, no place to retreat from you all.
Our privacy given away to tech, no fight no question
yet you like the fool you are push my video camera from  your space
telling me I have no right to film you face to face.
You sold our souls for the convenience of now,
But what’s left of us? Where’d we go, and how?

We Serfs in polos, the white-collar star bucks ******,
Spoiled and arrogant, we’ve all been scammed.
Cell phones killed the magic its gone, the mystery slain,
All answers in pixels, no room for your tiny underused brain.

Spoiled, pampered, entitled, and mentally neutered by the over-processed, corporate-approved content that’s spoon-fed through algorithms, YouTube, and Facebook clones of clowns social media vampires soulless and genderless. They’re stuck in an adult-sized version of what should have been childhood  Disney lessons, but all those lessons are blurred and neutered into sheeple mediocrity. Coddled, wrapped in mommies ouch free band aides and tear free shampoo. Constantly bought and sold and always told their feelings are the center of the universe, and now they’re the ones mindlessly chanting “Team One Direction” and “Big Time Rush Forever.”  The same kids who were never " bullied", never pushed to confront anything challenging, or forced to step outside their comfort zones. Phone out , click take that ***** picture, then run and tell and post all the " bad men " from a one sided fairy tale mirror. Everything curated, everything moderated, safe from the harshness of life, only to grow into adults who are still trapped in the glow of their ‘safe spaces,’ feeding on pre-packaged, consumer-friendly fluff. Making office life unbearable for real men and even worse voting and making laws. Still can't sleep without a night light. As the prison door slams again, another unwanted pregnancy.

All our faces are known, in an instant, they’re there,
A snapshot, a database, no secrets to spare.
The world’s all exposed, no corner too dark,
We film every moment, every spark.
In an instant you have my address, my job
and all the rest. Stalker fantasy
psychotic and legal and plain to see.

A Karen’s outburst, a cop gone wrong,
We post it, we share it, we sing it in song.
No mystery left, no quiet refrain,
Just constant noise, the endless campaign.

We’re all content now, our worth measured in likes,
Trapped in the web, shackled by swipes.

Participation trophies, and the sanitized comfort of never feeling a real blow. The ones who grew up on Disney-fied lessons, where nothing’s too hard, nothing’s too real—just bright, happy images, perfect for minds that were never asked to do anything for themselves. Diary of A Wimpy kid poster children. Glamorized and loving it. Bedazzled soccer mom minivan Blaring Brittany.

The same people who never learned to think for themselves  now telling you what to think and giving YOU the life time ban. Because the world around them was designed to stop them from ever having to try  to cry or question why. When everything’s curated by the Google and Chat GPT A.I., when the world fits into a neat little echo chamber of controlled opinions, there’s no room for independent thought, no need to fight for your identity. Who are you anyway ? It doesn't matter.  Go do your project in a group as A group.

No wonder they’re  all so eager  to cry and tattle like the sissies they are all overweight  tools, easily satisfied with plastic idols, mindless likes, and a world that offers everything delivered to their doors on an Amazon Jeff Bezos ***** rocket  silver platter. It’s the loudest, most vapid echo of a  monetary , greed society that’s already prostituted  itself. Toddlers in Tiaras . Cash me outside.
Her mer gerd.

From " Friends " to Highschool Musical.
Trump truly is what you deserve.

For an hour I visited,
A guest to the house,
Of a poet's 'palace.'

For an hour I was there,
It took me all that time,
Just to post once.

For an hour I visited,
A weary world,
Of 'The best poets you've ever met.'

For an hour,
And I'll never go again.

Share with me your hopes and dreams,
the greatest ones with wild schemes,
what lights that spark in your eyes and
what dims the glow when that spark dies?

Tell me what makes your heart ignite,
like a warming fire on dark cold nights,
what distant shores do you long to roam
and which path would lead you far from home?

What songs awaken your happy smile
and what keeps you busy for a while?
Tell me what triumphs fill your untold trials
and what you have witnessed over the miles.

Let me bask in your greatest joys,
and share in the moments life employs,
time moves fast as friendship grows
into something beautiful that only we know.

©️Lizzie Bevis

I don't like the crumbs,  
But I eat them anyway.  
I eat them like they're whole,  
As they are the best part to me.
They are always there.
Like a man who's instead  
Learned to fish
There's more
to be had,  
Saving the rest for later.

I take slow, small, deliberate
bites,  
Like a goldfish,  
Mostly inhaling water,  
Saving the bigger pieces
for you.

Although they're all mine,  
They taste better, knowing  
That I've shared them with you.  
No matter how far these crumbs  
Drift apart,  
Whether you eat them fast  
Or you eat them slow,  
There will always be something left  
To swim around
in your stomach.

I am afraid to close my eyes  
And miss the moment you  
Savor it all.  
I could tell you that I've saved  
The best part
for you,  
Knowing that it's all I have to give.  
My hands are only so big

I’m,  living, and thinking in-between every day,
Trying to discover my soul, while constantly,
Trying to avoid, the ever changing, man - made rules,
Of today, many evil minds, trying to lead us their way.
Who is controlling, this gift from God, where we live today,
An evil deed, gets so much-repeated attention,
Then, good one’s  every day. There are true prophets, Philosophers,
Among us looking into the future, in many ways, although, in todays,
Society, most people only listen to the wealthy, who have expensive,
Boats, at the docks, on the bay.
Wow, look at it this way man, people smoked Marijuana, ***,
Mary Jane… no harm to the participants, no matter how ******,
Your buzz took you away, oh yea, it was the gateway drug too.
Hey, dig this, it was only illegal because the establishment,
Was not profiting, from sales every day, So, they formed their,
Own cartel, this must be a miracle, as soon as they started dealing,
Their dope, **** is good for every ailment today, How, many millions,
Of taxpayer’s money, was spent, hiring the best weedoligest,
So, they would have the good stuff, for many joint sessions, of congress,
Just to say, yea this the good stuff, man let’s  take an early lunch, today.
Over 50 years ago, they could have interviewed, the experts, at the,
Woodstock concert, yea three days, man, a small pond of mud, was,
The bathtub, shared food, pipes, and bongs, toking away, like wow,
A baby was born, peace & love different races, living surviving together.
Almost a half million people in a farmer’s field, his sheep were running away.
Everyone had to share, their souls, are happier today.
Almost a half million people, for real, man,
Yea the largest gathering of people, ever in the USA.
All you hear are positive, funny stories,
From the good old days.



                                                                                                                            
                           The original: Tom Maxwell  © 11/18/2024 AD
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                
                                                                                   4:20 am

I watch you write,  
your pen flowing like a river,  
each word a current
that pulls me under.  
I am ensnared in your story,  
captivated and lost
in the beautiful, broken
and hurting depths of you.

©️Lizzie Bevis

It's right after I wrote your message
That I had to write this here
Please know I dont hightlight tragedy
But this page, is full of fear...

It's also full of a bunch of NEXT ****T

To single out fear is but a guise!
one written so as to throw you off,
In hopes that you realize
That I write for more than just
Some cathartic sort of prize

It's a vehicle, A medium
unique as song and dance-
Like water color or oil paints
The rhythmic rhymes entrance

Do you know me?
Do I know you?
What secrets do you embrace?

I have my pleasures,
My little treasures.
I wonder if I am the only one?

They're not to be hidden,
Nor are they forbidden.
They're just mine. My secrets.

For example,
Do you like to dance crazily with music loud?
Do you do art, paint, draw, create?
Do you go for a walk late at night?
Do you sit in your room and contemplate?
Or do you think about who would win, superman or batman?
Do you feel sad? Do you feel happy? Do you have a secret anger that burns you?
Or are people as plain as they look upfront?
What is it that you do that you hold dear, near and out of fear you keep inside?

I wonder. Am I the only one with secrets that no-one knows?
Why do I hold them so close? To make them feel like mine.
What am I afraid of, That if someone knew my secrets, they would no longer be secret?
Why does this make it feel special? If no-one knows about them?
If they were known, it would no longer be enjoyable.
Is it for the lack of judgement that I tell no soul I know?
Or is it to keep it mine and by sharing it, it is no longer mine to share?
Is it my secret and do you have any you want to contribute?
Then it will be our secret.