Digital trash…

Misery of the nightstands

translated into smartphones

rummaging under ambient light

through my digital trash,

and I find

I am only ordinary, unevolved,

fearful of injury and bad grammar

what was supposed to uplift

has brought us down.

Just the other day, I backed up

my chats in 120,050 messages

so many conversations – since October

yet nothing that I’ll really remember

Scrambling my neurons may have

a purpose – keeping us talking, distracted

insatiable for ‘content’.

We assume identities

call oursleves authentic- version 4.3

pitch for appreciation,

casually request others

to subscribe, love and hate, produce and pilfer

yet you don’t know

what I am on about, and

I don’t see you more

than the voices you exhibit;

we are all running,

whereto? I don’t know.

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