There is something less romantic
About the way you read my poems.
You hold not the paper I scribbled my soul on
But a screen.
I write these words on a screen and send it to yours.
This screen.
These screens connect us,
So why do are we so alone?
Why is isolation the firs price we must pay
To make our bosses rich
And to keep our landlords lazy?
How many coups, how many deaths
Just to keep the battery running.
How many hours, minutes, and seconds each day to we stare?
This screen.
This screen.
This damn, fragile screen.
