I find myself weary of this machine.
Yearning for the age of technology to end.
To go back to bare feet and humble hearts.
To a point where our self-righteousness,
sense of entitlement,
bank of bondages
would fade into the past
in a matter of minutes
and with one flash of light
we would look at these contraptions and think:
How silly we were.
Just how lame was our ambition.
How quickly we killed off our own humanity
through the most uncreative of tools.
| tap, tick, click, click |
We are carved from the
same sad stone, only mine is
more wood than stone.
How can detachment
be love? but it
strange we are. I stalked the
night streets to forget.
The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you
not knowing how blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.
* dirty hands *
+ warm heart + street art
~ seems like a logical place to start ~
instead she chased.
“tug his shirt sleeve,” she thought, beat
him to the dumb punch.
grab your shoulders, shake
you. but, i’m no Fighter and
you’re no Lover, hun.