I lost my mother

No, not to death
I lost my mother to technology
To social media
To that ******* Facebook
I lost her to the bright rectangular shard of glass that was her phone

There she could reconnect with her friends
See what they were doing
Reunite with long lost childhood buddies
And see cute videos of dogs and babies

I used to love going on dates with my mom
Just the two of us
Most would say we were like sisters
We shared clothes and stories
And life lessons in between
Sips of coffee and slices of cakes
And walks in malls just because we wanted aircon

But now when I'm sitting across her at the table
Her eyes fail to meet mine
If they do all she'd say was wait, I'm replying
Then her eyes would fall back to the screen of her phone
Never-ending conversations became conversations that never even started
Loud chatter above food became silence so loud I could hear myself chew
Laughter and smiles were all the same except they were done looking down, facing a phone

And now I would rather dine alone
Than dine infront of someone glued to their phone
And that says a lot coming from someone with social anxiety and fear of being alone
Because if instead of talking to me your talking to your phone
I really would rather just be alone
I promise you it's not that different

Social media was designed to make us all connected
Countries apart, continents in between
We could talk and call like we were together at that very moment
But now the people were beside
The people we can touch and feel
The people with us physically
We forget to talk to, we ignore
We become disconnected with
Yes, you are retying old ties with your old friends who are miles away
I get that
And I am more than happy for you
That you and your highscool friends talk again
But what's the use of making new ties if you don't keep the ones you have now

I lost my mother to technology
I don't know if it's too late
I know technology won't stop advancing any time soon or any time in the future for that matter
But I have faith
I know beneath my mothers eyes glued to the screen
are the same eyes as the ones that first laid their eyes on me
Who looked at me ever so lovingly,
Like the most precious gift in the world

I lost my mother to technology
And I hope it's not too late to find her again

I love poetry.
I am poetry.
However,
My typing device provides no choice to, with willing will power,
turn of grammar suggestion.

To proof read a poem twice,
and still edit it once;
I love poetry,
I hate my typing device.
I am poetry.
Please steal my typing device from my rear left pocket.

As I need an excuse,
To aquire a new one.

I've confined the greatest hits of Marx
to a playlist
and periodically map over them with dull,
grasping eyes, when desperate for talking points
or anti-capitalism ideation

The works of Bukowski, Poe, Emerson,
tethered to my fingertips where I can stave
them off enough to hold concept
but unearth no meaning

I can pull and manipulate quotes
like nobody's business

I googled Sigmund Freud once
because I forgot how to spell his name

If photos could become life
and give justice to experience and wealth,
I would be Frank Lloyd Wright

If John Muir had an iPhone,
he would be as distracted and rooted
Somehow he died surrounded by angels
at the advent of advertising and public relations;

Emily Dickinson would have been
an Instagram model and romanticized
mental illness

I gasp in admiration and nostalgia
at Rockwell, but that world never existed
beyond his oil, canvas and scope

If the people that wrote the history books
had to read them, they would be
as insatiable as me.

All we are is illusions of aesthetics
to one another
Trapped in the vaguely perfect candor
of rehearsed moments

Tripped up and mired in perspective
because we aren't as lost as they
Only lost to ourselves

The library of my mind relies
on binary communication,
programmed in arbitration

And inside, there's a small child
whose heart still desires to play
But he's overwhelmed and crying for help

In the corner, a yearning spirit
is steadfast and pacified
Forming a benchmark of baseline bullet points
Wrought with cynicism

I am not smart
I am not profound
I am not layered
I am not organic
I am not the next great American anything

I don't want to be
a heartbroken Daedalus.
Let me have those wings
so I could be
the one to burn
carefree
into the sun
selfish, ignorant, oblivious.
Not grieving and delirious.
Incinerate this youth,
this dream to the root;
an instant ball of flames,
so but memory remains.

* * *

Cut my wings before I'm high
Are you my Daedalus?
We're not mature enough to fly.
I'm not your Icarus.
I'd rather be the liver
of Prometheus,
not himself who did deliver
hope to those oblivious,
misusing now his fire...

* * *

I'd rather be the liver of Prometheus
than live in this illusion of deliverance
The more you know, the more you're faced with ignorance;
and ignorance defeats you with experience

I'd rather be the wings of Icarus
and know the smell of burning feathers
than have a tomb stone like the one of Sisyphus,
no longer strong to push it from the nether

Dust mites and terabytes.
A simple recipe for humanities blights.
Thoughts form not into structures,
but paper you keep forgetting to take out of your pocket
when you throw your jeans into the dryer.
Flyers online consume our nation
as society mimics intimacy
through the twist and turns of an online server.
Just out of touch enough
to create the illusion of choice.
A high IQ regains the reality of vision
further blocked by the rose tinted glasses
hanging on the wall of every store.
What use is hiding behind a screen
when the only enamored party you have
is the one you've fabricated in your head.

White noise on the monitor
brittle and bitter loathing
excited by nothing but
the something under bed.

#speakless
#feelmore?
#twittering
all such useless noise.

Action is essential -
"pessimism of the intellect
optimism of the will"
wrote Gramsci, rotting in his cell.

Machine gun fire from my fingertips;
I feel the words flow like some
maelstrom of masculine violence
on some long lost mental battlefield
some monolith of shame,
Monkeys.

You don't speak, you don't listen
you're encased in your own cage.
So am I. Alive half-dead,
brittle to the core with the
threat of indifference.
Dead with the action of knowing that one is at peace
with it, the fear of the self, divided
  -in two
blue? Oh yes, blue blue blue, blue blue blue.

Red pill, blue pill, truth.
Yawn, boring internet culture.
Yawn the squalid indifference.
Yawn the 21st century
Yawn the 22nd century etc etc
Yawn the suffocating critic,
Yawn your inaction,
Yawn my pretension,
Yawn my failed attempts at caring -
Not natural.

"Yes very clever, post it on the wall and
gain applause from the decaying crowd" she says,
"as they self implode out the echoes of
emptiness, measured monolith"

I scrawl -
"no more of this".
Burning brain can crush and does frequently so don't tempt
it to go Godzilla, I can do it with ease.
Crush cities in my mind. Bombastic ******* when push
and shove meet in urban jungles.

Painful Pan Pen Ease, woodland industrial spirit crush
Boom.

The title is a clue,
Go away.