Society has crumbled,

The world has regressed,

Everyone is depressed,

Mentally jumbled.


We think we are above,

All of those dystopian stories,

That we don't fall in those categories,

But they fit like a glove.


Fahrenheit 451?

Who reads books anyway?

There is no keeping the media at bay,

Our screens are on all day!


Orwell's 1984?

Thanks to phones we have no privacy,

Everyone inflicts their own policy,

And agenda evermore.


The Giver?

Our joy and suffering,

Are ****** away by our constant screening,

And pleasures made to deliver.


Ready Player One?

We turn to escapism,

So we can run,

From activism, racism, and fascism.


We think we are above,

All of those dystopian stories,

That we don't fall in those categories,

But they fit like a glove.

A billion words,
a thousand stories,
those are all I have.
Yet I couldn't write
a single page
if you had even asked.

The stories keep me going,
keep my head among the clouds
but my feet upon the road.
I see the beginning, the middle, the end
but pen and paper couldn't meet
to write the words that once had flowed.

I am drowning in ideas
of the characters I see
but when it comes to make them real,
they are gone like in a dream.