Thursday, October 11

this isn't a poem

it isn't anything...it's embarrassing. it's word vomit. it only has stanzas for the sake of air..you know like how you need to breathe when wretching




These are the things i can't say
to my therapist, only the internet,
because it doesn't need to understand,
to make me feel better. It isn't a being.
Sure, lots of beings subsist
inside of it

but together with thoughts
and ideas, and social media, and pop culture,
mixed with
inflated senses of self importance
and skewed self images, the internet
becomes a thing.

A jumble of mixed connections and missed
messages. Crossed wires, fried brains,
GPS locations of food trucks, and
digital games and the ability to connect
with perfect strangers, both on another level
of Halo 3, and on another level
of self.

I can word-vomit onto the drug-hazed
face of the internet
because it doesn't sit before me
breathing quietly and possessing the
ability to judge my bouncing knee
or decipher my nervous eyes.
No, i sit before it, this thing, with no
mind to decide on me and
no heart to feel about me.

Really, in this world,
how can anyone bare their soul
to anyone, with the ability
to think and choose? Because
with that ability comes options,
possibilities. The chance
to not understand, to not relate,
to unlove me.

I need an empty page and a pen,
or a glowing screen and a send button.
I feel, I think, I love,
y'see–
and therefore, possess the ability
to walk away, the chance
to uncare about the opinions on my soul, by these
inanimate things. They are just things. Just things,
which can't love me
or unlove me.

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