Each morning stuffed & crammed in tin cars like robotic sardines,
Stepping on controls,
& turning wheels,
Steering the course of our lives,like salmon swimming upstream,
Rushing, hustling through details of time.
We breathe, we exhale,
We inhale our morning stress, a thick steam of routine
We never purge the angst ridden sighs.
Recycling back into artificial air,
Blowing out Pandora’s prisoners.
Speeding to start a day of mindless things,
Reproducing papers stained with smudges of black toner,
Rubbing together like a shuffled orchestra,
In perfect collating harmony.
Melodic echoes of metal paper clips,
& bone thin staples binding sheets,
Belonging together in marriage.
The crunching sound of die cut holes on fine stationary,
Round circles punched, Scattered to the floor,
A white flurried snowstorm of confetti,
On the floors of a plaster box.
Four white walls illuminated with fluorescent lighting,
Sucking the pink from our skins & baking them in a yellow tan.
The sun never kisses the exterior of our bodies,
We are houses desperately in need of paint.
always typing, always texting, always instant messaging
We are master interpreters of words on flat screens, flat paper
Without human touch,
Without human contact,
Without human voice,
Blank stares fixated on machines,
Forced into a delusion that we are in control.
We are not the masters.
We are the disconnected slaves,
Able to transmit data at lightning speed,
TO communicate our material needs.
The slaves to the revolution beat themselves with
Whips of assumptions,
& Crops of laziness.
Our humanity is the skeleton key, but it was sold
To the power of the machines that we built to hide behind.