As technology advances
What are our chances
To live in an apocalyptic place made out of waste
We will scavenge and hunt for our bread and butter
Most of us will try find shelter, whilst others in the gutter
Does it have to be like this?
Tell me if you had one wish
What will you choose when mother nature needs us
As she is the one who's ever going to feed us

What happens when your desire to play withers?
New antics and evils into you slither
A network of growing narcissists
Where worth is determined through a pose
That turns comrades into cannibalists
Feigned friendships that keep you on your toes
Where character is captured in clothes and not what’s enclosed
With a language of muck that does not elevate others but encourages lows
What happens when children have no chance at innocence?
They don’t have different directions to choose in a sense
I don’t want the masses to move like miserable television
I want my people to be able to make heartfelt decisions
Decisions that shake the earth instead of denizens that can only shake their ***
We lose our humanity behind pieces of glass
When we should be losing our sanity in fields of grass
And what happens if the WiFi expires?
Can our ways be rewired?
Inducing ideas that inspire?
Or will the world finally retire?
As we watch it burn down in fire.

My generation was born in the age of technology.
We don’t know how to communicate without our phones or computers.
"You have to disconnect in order to connect with one another. Put down the technology and connect with the soul."
I have learned that if you just sit down with someone, you can learn so much.

“A friend talks to you. A good friend listens.” I am a good friend.
Before phones friends would sit under a tree and talk for hours.
That’s what this world needs.
Proper communication.

When I’m with Dakota, we put our phones in our bags.
We sit there and talk or enjoy each others company.
We stopped ourselves from becoming these internet addicted zombies.
We have learned to become human.

The future won't find my love letters
Just texts trapped in old phones
Emails stuck on old hard drives
Maybe a password protected server

My grandchildren won't find our video chats
Even if they were recorded
All I have for them is passwords
Saving my love in clouds

The future won't know the details of how much I loved you

We, the voice of the most oppressed,
Work in the profession remaining the most humble,
Throughout histories, as slaves our lives still remain tumble,
With our strangled necks, we are deliberately suppressed

For the centuries, our voices remain unheard,
Like a weeping fish at the sea,
We are treated zombies at the rush of a blood,
Collecting by hand, the human society’s poops & pea

Things for us got intensely worse,
We work as a group with an isolated curse,
For our livelihood, go into manholes as bare-bodies
Mostly get out as dead-bodies

From pathology to oncology,
We are treated untouchables, even by the modern technology
We are the oxygen-offering trees that remain green
Hurting ourselves, collecting excreta making this world neat &clean

With our hand-cuffs we shout and fight,
Rulers remain drunken-deafs to our plight,
Hell with your knowledge, to those who go to college
And keep pushing us to the drainage,
We remain living dead and frustrated, to get our right

When asked about work, we remain dumb and blind,
Fearing the responses to our ***** revelations,
Because humans are unemphathetic and unkind
To get our life some elevations.

Our mind said us “Please think! Please Think!”
When we revolt not to work, societies stink,
We warn, Witness your locality *****,
To our sufferings, if you keep blank & empty.

We are a collective voice,
Representing inhuman humanity,
That keeps the society on a poise,
So raise your voice, with a clarity of choice
To get us work with the utmost dignity!

Tinted and tainted
All their faces are painted
Like roses whose souls are sown
Unable to grow from a concrete phone

In the land of a loner, unknown
What stays in the shower is rarely shown
And lucky enough to become sainted
Is one more face to be repainted

i'd say the #2 has etched its genius
on the pale, ruled stock for the last time—

(imagine when Paul said that, scribbling his
preach and practice between the lines at the foot of a fiery cross)

but the truth is, my work is ephemera;
the etch of a keyboard stroke imprints only

as long as the flaming feet of a
hurried conflagration.

Dust motes and sweat stains
Faded graffiti over rusted steel plates
Advertising everything, from politicians to a massage parlor,
The engine roars disgruntled, in smoky rancor.

I stepped on your feet, said I was sorry
Tell me mister, could you tell I was lying?
Pushing through the rush-hour crowd
I finally found my footing and was proud.

Well, there’s something to be said for low expectations
A word of praise for cranky co-passengers.
Not that the polite ones aren’t fun,
When they smile and roll their eyes like they’re so done.

And it’s not that I’d ever expect sincerity,
At 10 on a rainy Tuesday morning
I’m not a nihilist, or even much of a cynic by default
But at 10am, I take nice with a bucket of salt.  

I put on my headphones, crank the volume up to max,
Sway to the shrill screeching of pirated tracks
I’m sorry, did you say something? I can’t really tell.
It’s not you’re uninteresting, it’s just that this song is swell.

And maybe I could’ve made more of an effort
Gotten to know your name, exchanged toffees and emotional support
Maybe you’d have told me your story, if my ears were free
Maybe we could’ve found something worth a keep.

But you see, mister, it’s not you it’s me
At 10 on a Tuesday morning, I’m not the best company.
I hope, tomorrow, you’ll find a co-passenger worth your time,
As for me, facelessness suits me just fine.