the death of my iphone.

I jumped onto the bandwagon, I'll admit as much. I once held such a fine piece of technology in the palm of my hand. I'm not one for the latest and greatest, believe me, I'm old fashioned only because I don't give a fuck. But, I started to. I wanted the world at my fingertips, for once, and I attained such through an Iphone. I personalized to my taste and was happy. Such power, or so I thought.

It's as if my clothes were torn off from my body to be replaced by one single jumpsuit. I wore this ugly, gray thing around unknowingly.. I was yet another one. I became lost in the capabilities of my phone and the quality at which I could converse so freely with the world. The faceless world. The print seemed to get smaller and smaller with each use of my phone, soon my face was glued to the screen absorbing everything and ignoring the world around me. All I wanted to do was jump around from content to content, killing boredom, entertaining my mind, conversing with witty drones I called my friends. My phone slipped from my hand and barreled toward the tiled ground, colliding with it face on. A loud CRACK whizzed through the air and for a moment I felt scared. The front screen had shattered from the impact and proved uncomfortable to use, lest I sit there and continuously pick out small shards of glass from my fingers. I was forced to set it aside and what confronted me was astonishing.

People are faceless in public. We have our own worlds to go home to and we care so little about things outside of our world. Tell me, when has a stranger's voice soothed you or a smile made your day? How the fuck would you know? You're too busy looking at your phone.. This small, mechanical entity that is distracting everyone from the bigger picture. Maybe I just need a change of atmosphere, but I wanted to wretch. I wanted to gouge my eyes out at the sight of so many beings hunchback over their phones, ignoring the world, and shutting themselves further away from society. Granted, not everyone lets their phones take over their lives but it's all too easy to let that happen.

One night, after many beers and disgusted autopsies of the depersonalization of human interaction due to cell phones, I sat in front of my bathroom toilet ready to hurl. Ow, too many beers, my stomach ached for liberation and yet something else.. I wanted to be liberated. I wanted to slip into the void, unable to be reached, a mystery, a lone shark so be it. I took my phone and held it above the open lid. "Can you swim?" I asked it with a slur. It stared back at me innocently. As I blinked back tears, the shattered screen lit up with a text message. I could care less. I didn't want this. All of this. I want things to go back to how they were when people gained so much from human contact, from smiles and greetings, from interest in the people that inhabit this world. My hand unfurled as the phone slipped into the bowl making a deep, quick thud as it sank to the bottom. The screen lit up for one last time and was snuffed out for good. In an instant, I felt whole. I felt alive. I felt sick and that's when the beers decided to come up. The water in the bowl soon became a blur of vomit and my phone was lost to me for good.

Now, I see the world. I see everything ugly and beautiful and it pains me. I wonder where people are going and what they are doing. I long to know what makes the world tick, but I feel as if I'll be highly disappointed if I find out.. But most of all, I am apart of this world once more.

We're growing in numbers.

Young sickle fledgling look at how you stumbled from the womb on two legs made of yarn.

Warmth radiated -not only from the flickering candle upon the wooden table that we gathered around, but also from our tongues as we shared our memories of home. We threw our heads back and howled at the moon with passion lulling beneath our tongues and strength in our lungs. The cold crept through small cracks within the frame of the dirty windows, with gusto, threatening to stifle the flame. But we burn. Burn. Burn on.

such dark, dark monsters stirring inside of me.

put those hands away

A scratch in the surface, what is the purpose?
And if I could open wounds and unravel scars, I'd do a pretty number on you.
I feel trapped.
I kneel before the King, I have nothing for you, he says, slamming his scepter down, a look of heavy dismissal pulling on his brow. The walls begin to close in as I'm pulled from his grace's presence. No. Please hear me. Phantoms of misery cast down from the ceiling, bound for my heart, my flesh, what little hope for humanity that I have left and it's gone, within a moment, not even a moment because that exercises a flick of consciousness from the mind to own some state of being, a sense of self, but I had none, no time to gasp, to throw my hands up to shield myself, to cry, to run, to plead, anything. If hopelessness was a physical entity that could fill a room everyone would choke on it. They would all fall to their knees, asphyxiated, with pain and confusion contorting the features on their face. In my decomposing state, I would hear their shrieks and cries, whatever could escape their mouths, and I will smile because now they know how I feel. Yet, I am for the better, I will stand upon their corpses after I pile them high. I will throw my arms up towards the stars and ask for the brightest spotlight to show the world what I have done..

Desire for chaos.

Sleeping children weaving dreams of honeysuckle and games of chase through the small world that they call home. "Come play with us," shouts a little, blond girl with more authority than she cares to question. "I won't play your little game, but I know a better one," I say with an urge at curiosity and a wan smile. That's it. Yes. I've got them. I see their faces light up as if the city behind me has suddenly gone to flames, reflected in their eyes, and that's what I intend to do..

Put me back gently, just where you found me.

I was born in the wrong century.