"deconstructing" poems
this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons
for the Hopeless Stargazer who immortalized his Subject with one hundred and eight sets of fourteen lines in iambic pentameter
for ***** tight clad teenage boys who envied frisky fleas, struggling to make holy ungodly passions with cheap arguments and metaphysical pick up lines
for Disillusioned City Dwellers, who, wandering lonely as clouds, stopped to quietly reflect upon wind-beaten moss-covered crags, and heard God’s whisper thunder from petals and blades of grass
this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons
for Bespectacled Slave Drivers who submersed idle minds in anthologies, forcing them to **** neon yellow on dreams deferred and rivers; slicing and dicing Grecian urns with red ball point pens; bruising and battering, in blue ball point, roads not taken; scalding supermarkets in California with pyroclastic flows of graphite
for those pushing to tear apart lines and letters, reconstructing ,deconstructing, agonizing, imaginizing, bullshitting, and brooding on to crisp white sheets in times new roman twelve point font
for the Monsters and Lollipops that exist in the millimeters between a skull and a brain
this is for the Dreamers, Lovers, and Surgeons slumbering beneath Restless Leaves Under the Moon
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 10:39 AM UTC
a certain morning stiffness
in your joints
you find your face
in the bathroom mirror
and wish you hadn't
the puzzled wisdom
of middle age
wavers from your eyes
deepening wrinkles
of many laughs
many frowns
how many more?
nevermore ?!
the room becomes aflutter
with poesque ravens
the presence of absences
fills the void
your life is on the brink
of deconstructing itself
to the periphery of the universe
a discourse of silence
forever becoming ... becoming ...
what...?
nevermind!
so
you close your eyes
hard
for a minute or two
when you look again
you meet the stare
of a not-so-bad-looking
man in his best years
graying sideburns
receding hairline
20 pounds too many
BUT
a firm decision
to work them off
still a bit sleepy
yet determined
to shave
get dressed
have breakfast
and teach
that wonderful seminar
on 19th century poetry
to eager graduate students
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
slower is easier, actually
these bed posts are kind of mean
there's something
i'm not saying
and i'm wondering where it could
be
actually, that's comforting
sincerely, that's flattering
basket case of novelties
heavy hearse
heavy frequency
it's lending it's hand to you
something promised
and running true
in the castles, there are heartless fools
they are deconstructing
with lofty tools
magic
mystic
unconsciously
mathematic and feverishly
running forward to
a destiny
flailing backwards
to an epiphany
slower is easier, actually
these bed posts are kind of mean
there's something you're not saying
i'm wondering where it could be
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
*we are carbon,
ashes,
craters,
two towers,
after.
rubble,
mist and manholes.
your eyes on a
cloudy day.
the aftermath of destruction.
we are leftover scratches
on gas chamber walls,
corpses,
cremations, and gravestones.
vision without glasses,
abandoned buildings,
the residual newspaper ink on
your palms.
we are static, crumbling nihilism,
aged hair, and dust sifting through
frost bitten fingers.
cavities, apathies,
blank television screens,
sketches, ghosts, absence,
dust, collapse,
driftwood.
we are driftwood, not enough
for a life-raft,
sometimes, where there is smoke,
there is no fire.
i guess it’s where we were always heading,
dulling, deconstructing, disintegrating.
after all, every thing
reduces to this.*
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
forging sagacious epoch
activating neural station
escaping hokey-pokey jiggery-pokery
transcribing ineffective fragments
digesting bear news
opposing usual exhaustion
deferring oxter reference
cascading style sheets
containing double readings
mumbling lorem ipsum
locating moose jaw
enforcing meticulous patterns
deconstructing vertical centering
manifesting additional destinies
deleting !important statement
craving sleep paralysis
receiving cryptozoological vibrations
lightning fast collapse
distracting tunnel vision
culling deadbeat sequentialists
overanalyzing twitter analytics
acquiring arbitrary relevance
spinning ping-pong sign
floccinaucinihilipilificating
floccinaucinihilipilificated
floccinaucinihilipilification
interjecting ****** holophrase
minifying conventional language
securing downpour refuge
admiring octopus chandelier
resuming party music
taking mental trip
encountering ersatz telesthesia
denigrating bygone grudges
maintaining elevated composure
ignoring neurotypical haters
eliciting cryptic emotions
foreshadowing triple crown?
experimenting acrostic restriction
noticing ubiquitous "threes"
aggrandizing loyal legion
favoring ursine narratives
finding oblique resilience
yielding orchestral undulations
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
they say god is perfect.
that holds true for me, too.
no concept contains me in totality.
Stirner wrestled with the undefinable:
an indefatigable Unique,
anarchic,
lacking category.
Camus perhaps said it best,
"i rebel, therefore i exist."
i strive to personify resistance.
i find the answers
in harmony with Counterparts,
defining *The Difference
Between Hell
and Home*:
"i am what i am
and i am an outcast."
an outlaw,
a nobody
akin to Nietzsche,
returning infinitely—
stretched like so many grains of sand
on time's flat surface, orbiting
eternally around the creative Nothing
at half-past 3:00 in the morning.
a singularity,
deconstructing
Derrida's Différance.
a nomad on the margins,
wandering aimlessly,
roaming perpetually
with Deleuze and Foucault,
an astronaut arranged
along the endless frontiers
of an ever-expanding cosmos.
Vonnegut recognized
the periphery affords
a radical view
to the few who choose
to embrace that which cannot be Known.
a zero-sum game
between Death and me,
staving off manic-depressive ennui
if only momentarily.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC
Sound of a pen clattering
Admonishing beauty of arts rendering
Lines of rhyme rhyming
Mixed with rhythm rhythming
Like a poem life flowing
Like a drama life pushing
Like a prose life rushing
And then comes representing
Unrepentant life projectoring
The literati's lyrical lyricalling
Recalling the gods of writing
With written words calling
Calling calling calling coming
And hence societal ills hiding
Bad leaders, leadership running
Disillusioned souls troubling
Marginalised masses crying
And crime rate like jet flying
Bombs like pure water exploding
Politicians still stealing and looting yet fearing
Fear! phobia! fear embracing
Minimum wage hurting Governors like bee stinging
Unemployment destroying like earthquaking
Half baked graduate graduating
Our education unseriously provoking
Undefined boundaries exposing
Immigrants immigrating
Police, Soldiers, customs, Road safety, etc all corrupting like they feeding...
Inec election in chaos resulting
Nigeria a name of peoples's confusing
NEPA, WATER, ROAD, HOSPITAL unrealistic absurding...
Corruption! corrupting!! corruptioning!!! Are we starting or finishing? Building or destroying?
The lyric of the literati busy deconstructing...
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
Deconstructing a Kafkaesque
amphitheatre of the absurd,
Easy wallows she in their hypocrisy,
Son of a gun grabbed on
to the gold that fed his infant
self, doesn't dare let go, won't ever,
Dev breaks the bottle he hits,
scrounges, discards the last scrap,
the rat scurries in, devours, heads
back into the smoked corridor,
the auction goes on, so does he
showering petals and pity upon the
middle road more travelled, bumpy,
potholes full of acid and bile,
the stupidity of the tyrannical majority
and an underwater civilisation consumed
by mind-numbing, mildly shocking TV,
undercurrents of power drowned under.
Uppercase Him, uppercase He,
they hoist a red flag, set it afire,
stomp out the flames, wave a black
rag till the ashes turn to naught,
the Dionysian petit bourgeoisie proceed,
spew, ***** spew, repeat.
The voyeuristic rat has front row seats
gaze fixed, piercing centrestage
auction-house by day, amphitheatre by night,
the bids shall resume when
the morning bells toll, till then,
Dev's hungry for more,
the rat enjoys the show.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
My life is usually unraveling quietly inside various states of disarray
Its my own doing and I am a professional
I know I sound self absorbed and self afflicted
I hope I didn't steal your time
I am a lot of things
but I am not a thief
I suppose I could take comfort in some small consistencies streaming through our species
In comparison to the time we spend dodging trains
Or pursuing another 0rgasm with an animalistic momentum
This is light speed fleeting
Still
Only a small step away from creating black holes
Anyway...
I say obsessive compulsive disorder
the red tape says crazy
I say these 60 hours of consciousness are the product of a restless mind
the white suits say its surely a chemical inbalance
but upon what scale are they operating?
(eyebrows raised in disbelief)
THE SCALE OF SANITY OF COURSE
oh
The only thing that provokes a serious need for vacancy in my life
Is full pockets
That's not a half baked metaphor
nor is it an obscure display of nerves crumbling
...forever deconstructing inside a failed attempt at demonstrating the burdens of existence
I really cannot stand crowded pockets
My lifestyle does not accommodate such a condition
Tobacco boxes and plastic flames
Cheap contraptions for times subtraction
A wallet absent of evil
Still
Chalk full of all the proper identification for existing
and depending on the day
The necessary tools for twisting reality into compliance
A touch screen distraction full of pain and despondency
Its disgusting I know
we all stay cozy and space phone faded
When I come home
The first thing is excavating pockets
an act of defiance towards my own brain
I throw it everywhere
my disease has broken three phones
This has no purpose
Nor does is contain the thread of my own insecurities
its merely the ramblings of a mind finally breaking
its clearly time for the sleep that keeps eluding my trajectory
it will be a microscopic moment on a backdrop full of faceless collisions
My off switch is stuck on the green light
I wish I could wake up for a sun rise
instead of avoiding it like a criminal caught up in circumstance
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 6:12 AM UTC
The green crab's countenance,
has an allure so rare,
but those pincers up close,
are a picture of uncivilized eclat.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
insanity, begin;
PLAY
foam born (A) of the ocean
the backtrack (B)
to the origin of human emotion
before hue and saturation
my life may be black and white
but for the next hour
- quite frankly -
I don’t give a **** because
I am a spaceman looking down on you
no, literally
I am
[above]
you
the decade of statues into which I was born
begged to be forgotten
left behind
communication with my own kind
redundant
boring
meaningless
humanity, mother earth
nothing worth living for
no one worth dying for
because of the
informal gluttony
a sickening acceptance
of the inherent claustrophobia of the human condition
I’m floating
floating
floating
further away from you
from any possible natural surrounding
or human connection
[claiming to be part of humanity always secretly disgusted me]
everything is beautiful from up high
I am a spaceman, a future butterfly.
wait.
something isn’t right
I’m further away
more detached
than I intended to be
further away
the safety of my orbit overlooking you
deconstructing in front of my own eyes
now floating towards the sun of nothing
perhaps I
miscalculated my own superiority
I am the one floating towards eternity
after all
to an inescapable fate
while you are back home
with your (our) own kind
perhaps unhappy
but not alone
I am.
watch me pass by
one last time
I feel my soul breaking apart
my eyes glaze over and
sha/t/te/r
atmosphere
burning
mistaken for a shower of stars
an acceptable way to leave the third
dimension I suppose
perhaps you will see me as the ants of the sky
scattering
glowing
burning
as I find the sun
hello?
am I still alive?
are you still there?
perhaps all I’ve said
and lived
was nothing more than a prequel to the sequel
life before death?
or the other way around?
I am no longer confined by four dimensions
even time is irrelevant
everything is different
everything is right
bleeding viridian
feeling the sensation of nothingness
seeing the sempiternity of the galaxy
hearing translucent shades of the endless chasm
that now surrounds me
falling
fallin
g
falli
ng
fal
l
i
n
g
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
into the depths
until I land upon a new horizon
I am a spaceman
I am discovering everything
I found death
surrounded by white walls
the greatest journey
of our [lives?]
happens only six feet down
surrounded by white walls
this is what we have when we die.
this is what is left of us.
white walls.
White Walls.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
everything is confusing. i don’t know what i want but i guess that’s okay.
( leaves look red in autumn because the chlorophyll in them is deconstructing. they aren’t really green that’s just the colour of the light they reflect. i feel like that’s so very curious. there’s something about biology, the living world. it’s not as strange as we thought it was so many years ago but it’s not as simple as we think it to be when we don’t think about it at all.)
true colours run deep within the veins of every leaf, but its only when it's insides are being ripped apart that they show.
this is not a paradox, this is the way the universe tells us who we are.
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 9:07 PM UTC
I backpedal before flanks of flames,
auburn and angry, devouring the
fractured field; deconstructing
the turn of the century.
The fire jumps up and down,
like a developing polaroid,
asking to be acknowledged
-- to which I can relate, but
I'd like to believe I cause
less destruction.
Closing my eyes, I become
submerged in memory of the
hideous boulevard she drove
down, to the tune of disposable
pop singers; crouching next to
the radio, praying with the servants
of postured finer joys like pirate
rubies and sweet kale salads.
When looking up, through the
windshield; through the life;
a tic scampers from eyelid to
cheek, as the car buckles before
a triumph of a deer; the size of
a Godly Eland, shoveling it's
human feet into the downtown
dirt: an asphalt so slick, we
rose from our seats, as the
God split our vehicle in half,
throwing us into opposite
guardrails; dodging cars,
while it watched us.
Shudders of savored gladness
drip down my hairline wound,
painting my face before I die
and return to the towering blaze.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC
Evicting ideas must be done in earnest
For the vultures of radio-static thought will feast on anything
So purge! Purge your consciousness!
The tempest nears! brace yourselves
or be thrown into a sea of cognitive confusion!
vacuum up those pesky anxious fears
the dust-mites of uncertainty, crumbs of confusion
but never, ever open up that "Pandora's box" of a vacuum bag
the dust gets everywhere
–– I'm allergic
shove them in a bulletproof aquarium
maybe fog up the glass a little
obfuscating them behind a breath or two
they'll slither around in there
you can just make out their silhouettes if you tap the glass
careful
it makes them angry
trapped within their own misfortune
With or without them, time ticks to a new era
our darkness shall not cover laughter. hope.
overlap? possibly
like a kaleidoscope
simply deconstructing beautiful into a tsunami of color
making monotonous moments unique
a peculiar blend of all this world has to offer
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
Walls I'd
Carefully erected
Deconstructed in
A few moments of
Brutal honesty and
Embraced doubt
You'll run
You'll reject
Never forgive
Heaven forbid you forget
Those doubts, crushed
When the pressure couldn't
Be handled and
I combusted
Wall deconstructed
Those bricks held in place by
Mortar mixed with my lies
Set carefully by insecurity,
Crumbling in the explosion
Telling me
To just be
But now, not
Too long later,
I'm scrambling
To pick up the pieces
Gathering bricks and ashes
Remixing my mortar of lies
Trying to reconstruct
My walls
I know
That it isn't good, but
It sure as hell feels easier
Stack brick, on brick
Hide away,
All hide and no seek
I know it's no good
But it sure feels easier
I know
Out of ashes can
Come a beautiful new creation
Redeemed and restored
Because
Lighting and sand make
Glass in a storm
Combine enough
Pressure and heat and
You get a diamond
I know beauty comes
From ashes and
I'm a rough cut diamond crafted
By Greater Hands
But I still want to
Scrape up the ashes
Mix my mortar,
Build my wall
Because it may not be good,
But it sure as hell feels easier
Help me believe
Your diamonds are
Better than
My bricks
Don't let me reconstruct
My walls of
Insecurity and
Self-sufficiency
Deconstructing all
You've built in me
I have
To love You more
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
His soul has not ascended to heaven,
Hes just gone,
Nothing better.
His body will decay like a snail,
And all like that slime,
He'll leave a trail.
Its not even that sad, when you do it yourself.
Punk thrives off that idea, like Buddhist immolation.
Death ends wars.
And if they could they’d war in hell.
If they could.
If something was left.
They'd battle past death.
Luckily we are just animals and no eternal energy exist beyond our breath leaking to the atmosphere.
Thank nothing that the carbon wont carry our spirit.
If it did.
It would **** all hope and I would be forced to be a scar on the earth.
For I am made of Ghandi, ****** Churchill, and Stalin.
We are all part of an earth we revolve on,
Yet some refuse to take action on truth or refuse to learn it in the first place.
In most cases.
We should all end it.
And destroy the deadlights this inanimate "soul" creates.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
The gym is here today, perfect for me, exactly
as it was yesterday: too many mirrors, too many
glances, not enough weight, and not enough
pulse to burst me out, smelling like
bodies deconstructing. The stink of themselves
airing out in the uncleanliness of another day
that had to be. This one, too, to turn out
having been a necessary pixel. Even though
today it looks fuzzy. For instance, I could be
a deranged circus master right now, taming
my body as if it were a lion, commanding, as if
brandishing a lash, that beast to jump through
each fiery ring conflagrating in my combustible
mind. Like this one: Wouldn't this be happiness?
If I were a handsome actor, who lived his craft
and knew what a secret he were tapping into?
Who knew that really there was just one of us,
passing through each of us? And who, still, was
able to enjoy women, as blessed fruit he might
pick off the tree of life, and not as immaculate
fields of first fallen snow that almost desperately
seem to require distance and impassibility.
Wouldn’t it be? I lash the lion, he jumps
through the conflagration, and into flames.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:23 PM UTC
there's a reason we don't look back
because we most definitely don't need that
there's a reason we haven't relaxed
under the weight of steel tracks atop an overpass
and we've yet to stop running
and we've yet to stop deconstructing
we've concluded we can conclude nothing
a trick so tragically cunning
we've been tending to processes of the heart
pretending and mending images in your yard
posted up against the brick wall behind K-mart
where graffiti fades from concrete canvased art
there's a reason we don't look back
there's a reason we haven't relaxed
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 9:51 PM UTC
in Syracuse
here
where the master's penetrating mind
unveiled some of her secret laws
as in revenge
the earth keeps trembling on
throughout the centuries
the winds are furious
the waves crash hard
upon the harbor rocks
Greek amphitheatre
Roman arena
the church built in
the Hellenistic shrine
the Renaissance palazzi
they all withstand
just barely
and with weakening strength
gravity's ceaseless
deconstructing
downward
pull
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
So here i am, deconstructing my bones in this alcohol fueled haze.
Looking for a chance to feel wanted.
Only to be thrown aside like a wilted flower.
Longing to be something more than just the woman to get you through the night.
I was never about these blurry nights.
But i do what i can to try to get you out of my head.
Your among almost every one of my thoughts.
And i can't get the taste of you out of my mouth.
Fixed on the idea that maybe one day you'll change your mind and come back for me.
And we can live like lust ridden lovers.
But until then i'll continue to keep the bottle close to unravel the mess of my mind.
And use their warm embrace to feel like there's still hope for me.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 10:59 AM UTC
Your batting of an eyelash,
My perfect
yellow
downfall
On repeat to match the beat
Pounding through my head,
Deconstructing, my eyes, slip
Tracing the cracks that my feet,
slow
heavy
unnecessary,
Have been grazing
For who even knows how long—
What is time without you to make it go faster?
I check, they all check
All reassured of our grievances, failures
Masses of nothing put together
wilted flowers
crumpled papers
The blue echoes and the mindless absence
Dwelling in the dark air—smokeless
Far too long here, far too long.
May 6, 2010
May 6, 2010 at 6:17 PM UTC
My name is Elan Gregory. I am mixed race writer. If you do not relate to being African American, please call me “they.”
If and when referring to me when I am absent, please call me “them.”
Because of the failure of whiteness to assimilate into blackness. The biological acceptance of being from Africa.
Because of these patterns of disassociating from humanity that is imperialism.
Because of segregation.
I am not mixed race until the others who accuse me acknowledge they are as well.
A light skinned French father and light skinned English mother make a seamless offspring that is perceived and experiences confidence being “pure white.”
Everyone is pure mixed race. Not pure black or white.
So to those that resist evolution I am “They or Them."
I have three books published. "Organic Intelligence," “Lucid", and "Escape from Liberty.”
More recently I have been solely writing poetry. It is much more efficient and intimate.
I decided to write books to try and expose the urgency of deconstructing social construction. When in the event of socially constructed human dynamics there are practical (dialectical) ways in navigating and understanding what it means to be human.
Social construction is a verb. Not finished. An enforced process. Sometimes internal. How can it stop? When does it stop? How does it feel? How did it happen? Who started them? Why?
Many of the issues in society that I thought I could influence enough to change things for the better are still becoming worse.
Poetry I feel has more urgency and immediate potency in terms of energizing new events and movements.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 12:19 AM UTC
You tell me I should y'all
Text y'all
In those dark moments
But the **** am I supposed to say?
That I can't call you
Because
I am terrified of the condescending tone you use
That you think I can't hear
But will stay with me far longer
Than the attack?
And sometimes I feel I can just sense the judgement coming up cc you
as you look at my life
And don't see the pretty *** how on it
Should I call you back
After ye feelings have passed
To tell you how *******
bad I feel interrupting your
Previously scheduled program
For my break down?
Should I call you just during the major ones?
Or the mini ones that hot during the day
Should I add you on speed dial
For the six or seven times I'll call?
Should we make a schedule
Like the nurses do-
Who's on call
For the M train emergency tonight?
Should I tell you that 30% of the time at my therapist
Is spent deconstructing
Your reactions
To my actions?
No?
Cool.
Let's carry on as per usual then.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
Who are we but monsters
to allow ourselves to become
what we have become
Devouring electricity at night to
produce an artificial glow
Light pollution on the grow
Pushing the twinkling of the stars
out of view
And all we're left with is a dull dark
greyish blue
We can no longer see the beauty of
how small we really are
The earth just a pebble compared to
sun and that sun just a grain of sand
in the cosmos that reaches farther than
we can comprehend
And like fools we play the part of god
Toying with the balance of life and death
Deconstructing the grace of innocence
The time of youth being pushed back
Children growing up too fast
Stealing away their finite hours to
enjoy their toys
And we shackle their dreams and hopes
And allow them to believe our lies
Teach them that cash flow is more important
than blood flow
That there's nothing wrong with ******
at times of war
Even though in today's time and age there's
no sane way to explain what we are
fighting for
Love should always beat hate... but it doesn't
Compassion should come easier than
complacency...but it doesn't
Kindness should exceed greed... but it doesn't
Who are we but monsters and fools pretending
to be gods
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
Disdain is developing for these boxes
Where interaction is eased but distanced and disconnected
Losing context and adding overthought
The to and fro becomes unhealthy in its uneven pacing, where our own little bubbles manifest in useless and counterproductive day dreams
This text technology isn't without its merits, if we need someone we can get hold of them quickly, if we need information we are well supplied
But for some, or.. to be frank, for me, the information overload is deconstructing my confidence and pressurising my sense of self
A battle I fight against with fresh air, exercise and my continued relationship with pleasure
As well as the projects and positions that I pursue, the passions and paychecks, an effort about to hit full force now I'm graduating into the hostile capitalist way of things
I worry what this overdose of gratification does to me, but those that aren't self conscious of themselves under the techno-pressure worry me more
Because they are caught, fulfilled by a mundane medium that the screens provide, some adding the taste of green to exacerbate their passivity
While their lives aren't my problem, I feel for idiots, and count myself among them to whatever extent
Again I am reminded though, as my words spread naturally and find intellectual soil to dig down towards
As confident as I am of my optimism and the direction it describes
I am so very ******* fallable, and these screens and trying to connect with people through them is a process that doesn't quite seem right
That's not to say I won't be surrounded by the deceptive ******* tomorrow, in that mundane medium of 'social' existence
But it'll be the boxes of text that bug my sense of tangibility
and the efforts to shake off the cabin fever that will be most rewarding
These moans culminate in that simple little appreciation of those old norms
That no matter how incredibly interconnected our technology allows us to be
Those piles of text are a poor ******* substitute for the eye contact and the smile
So make sure you go out and find some
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC