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Strange it is,
That we are always
With people,
Day and into night,
Our lives do not touch
Each other,
Neither do our eyes
Who seldom meet each gaze
With “appropriate” respect
Or with our skin
As the edge of our leg slips
Half way through the bus seat
Or squished right against the
Cool panes of glass,
Escaping the other fellow
Like they were diseased.
It is an oddity indeed,
That those in a crowd
Often are the lonely
Beings who roam
This earth searching
For a connection that
No phone could ever replace.
We consume our lives
Easily through Windows and Apples
And Androids, all inanimate
And unfeeling —
They have easily become our lovers
Whom to which we greet in the morning,
Set aside our worries into and our
Schedules and bid goodnight.
Those Screen Folk, who
Ride the waves of progress in
One tiny box;
Connected to thousands and yet,
Still disconnected from life,
Who would they turn to
Should their inanimate lovers decay?
Strange it is, indeed,
That we have become strangers
To ourselves and the Art
Of human interaction.
— S.R.B
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ReplyThis is really good!
ReplyLove love love it!! <3
ReplyVery true, deep and profound
ReplyThank you for your support guys! I hope you guys are inspired to keep reading and writing your own.
— S.R.B
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