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Perhaps we are glued to our phones

because we are lonely

perhaps the promise of a digital companion

who doesn’t know our name

but knows our heart

is more alluring than the flesh around us

who know our name

and our past

and our presence

but could care less what goes on inside

as long as it acts according to expectations

(sit still. quiet hands. eye contact.)

and perhaps we enjoy the honesty

of screaming into a digital void

because it ends in companionship

not censure

perhaps i am on my phone because i don’t want to talk to you

because the person on the other side of the screen

is more a part of my community

than you ever were

perhaps you shouldn’t ask what is wrong with us

that we ignore you

but what is wrong with you

that we feel such a desperate need to escape

into the arms of a stranger

who we will never touch.

Perhaps you should not blame the prisoner

for wanting to imagine freedom

but blame the prison

for taking it away.

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Not A Poem

This is not a poem. It

is not beautiful; it

does not sing.

This is a scream.

Where have all the children gone?

They were lost–

Somewhere between DC and CA

we lost our way

and lost our kids.

Instead, we are left with a paltry few

hollow-eyed strangers who

fear both the dark and the light.

we revoked their rights

to be innocent, to live,

instead of a playground we give them

a tomb.

(if we even allow them to escape the womb)

And we’ll keep trading

their noise and their smells and their laughter and tears

for a porcelain fantasy

and our comfortable fears.