You
ruined my favorite song,
the one I played for you
the night we (I?)
confessed.

You
listened to my song and said
you knew it
too.

You lied.
You're a liar.

You
crinkled the fragile paper of
my heart,
already thin from
ruined songs passed.

When I hear it now
I hear
the drumbeat in your chest
blood rushing through my ears
the breaking of a glass
staccato breath between--

Not:
Your voice
A phone call
Text
Email
LinkedIn notification.  

You
ruined my favorite song.

us
as humans
are three parts
struggle
one part
curiousity

asking our god
Google
how to solve
our problems

using .org
as a relevant source
for reasonable destruction

"whats the most painless way
to **** myself?"

"how can i tell if my boyfriend is cheating on me?"

we are unsure
if blood or electricity
runs through our veins

and we are almost certain
that some form of cruelty
lives in all of our hearts

living with brains running on
wifi signals
and vocal cords
fueled by poison

we suffer
and we make others
suffer

Words like water,
oh how the speech can delay.
Dripping eloquent but lost to rivers,
indulged in deluge,
overwhelmed in expression, comments and decree.
I want you here,
oceans away.

How can I touch the chatter,
be diluted in a voice.
Move me with your extract,
alluded, trembling from afar.
Waking up to different sides of the moon
I need you here,
sunshines away.

and the blades from petals still stabbed
like it was torture
though it crumbled in effect
why the trouble for pistol flowers
when aching is within a splinter.

Something so beautiful,
lost to an operating system.
Quiet rumbles, not big enough
to make a sound.
Even if I screamed,
my vocals typed to characters,
you would not,
could not hear my strain.

Efflorescence,
our love it blooms.
Flourished in email, video plays, stills.
Across the ocean I came,
to wake up in the sunshine,
with the moon at our side.

Sprouting up new love,
greater than we thought equip.
Even through storms, snow, rain,
I am ecstatic here,
your body I call my house,
your smile I call my home.

"Woe is us of the 60s and 70s.

Technology is ruining our lives.

Millennials don't talk to eachother but to screens.

Change is bad.

Thomas Edison was a witch."

Let us enjoy our commodities,

Our youth,

Our technologies,

And our expression,

As you do yours.

Please.

I miss you
backspace
I still think about you
backspace
I'm sorry
backspace
I love you
backspace
backspace
backspace
hi
enter

-eleven­

As soon as you make something seem terrible,
it becomes
slightly terrible.

Someone could be using that very something in a good way,
but as soon as someone comes up with a bad way it could be used,
that thing becomes tainted by thought.

Those people ignore the good in that thing,
and imagine a bad future with it,
creating a taboo that is almost inescapable.

Our thoughts create our future.
Give things a chance.
Think positive.

The future is in our hands.
It is also in the hands of bad people.
We must coexist and cease blame on things.

I was mechanical, husked from a man,
pieced back together with my mechanical hands;
and though my only pride left rest in my hands,
I was both machine and man.

You sat me beside you and gave me a name,
you told me you loved me and asked for the same;
I acknowledged and promised to give you the same,
though I could not give you a name.

Your delicate question came with a tear
as you whispered it into my mechanical ears;
but your question only echoed between empty ears,
and my skin began to rust from your tear.

You left one last touch and sighed your goodbye,
you walked so far away until you were gone from my eyes;
and so I shut off my hands, my ears, and my eyes
so that the last thing I felt was 'goodbye.'

Some say you can know someone
From the contents of their purse
From their favorite music
Or what they want to take with them in a hearse

I say it's a far simpler method
To just look at one's search history
Which is why I messed around with the settings
And made my Google tracks a mystery