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.
